When We Were Young
by melissaeverdeen13
Summary: April has just moved to Chicago in hopes to make it big on stage. Her studio apartment is right above Avery's Deli, where Jackson works, where he happens to be every night just in time for her to walk in. They become each other's best friends, each other's everything, unable to fight the push to become something more. Until something beautifully tragic forces them apart.
1. Chapter 1

**APRIL**

Everyone talks about how cold Chicago is in the winter, but no one bothered to tell me how unbearably hot it is in the summer.

By the time everything is inside my tiny studio apartment, I'm sitting in the middle of the floor wearing shorts and a sweat-soaked tank top, wishing I had air conditioning. Central air is a luxury I can't afford, but I saw a window unit in the alley across the street and I'm seriously considering lugging it up here to see if it works.

Not now. Now, I'm way too exhausted. Later.

When I have enough energy to get off the floor, I walk to the window and look outside. The street below is clogged with cars and people are milling about the sidewalks, tourists and natives alike.

This activity is very different from what I'm used to. I graduated from Kenyon College in Ohio with a degree in theater just a month ago, and while I was comfortable and thrived in that environment, I knew I couldn't stay there forever. My name was never going to be up in lights if I stayed in rural Ohio, hoping to make it big.

Making it big isn't just about hope. It's about work, taking risks, and being afraid beyond belief. And I think I can check all three of those boxes, having just uprooted everything I've ever known and transplanted myself in the middle of downtown Chicago.

I've never lived alone before. In school, I always had roommates whether I was on or off-campus. The quiet is foreign to me, because before college my house was full of sisters. Even the street noise isn't enough. My thoughts are way too loud.

I work on setting up my small space, basically just one room for everything. My bed goes on the far window by the wall and radiator, couch facing the small TV, and a low dresser to offset the kitchen space.

Once I'm finished setting up everything, plants, picture frames, and all, I stand back and admire my work with pride. It's not much, but it's nice. I'm thankful I don't own that much stuff, otherwise this place might overflow. It's just enough.

I take a shower to rinse all the moving sweat off, and come out with my hair in a towel, wearing only underwear. I don't have to worry about being conservative walking around this little place, because there are no roommates to jump out and scare me. I nod to myself and smile, thinking that I could definitely get used to this.

I flip through the channels shirtless with a lollipop in my mouth - this apartment will never be without candy, my one weakness - until I find something to have on in the background while I unpack the kitchen. At least, that was my intention. What ends up happening is that I get sucked into the show, and stand there barely-clothed until I'm chewing on the meager bubble gum inside the hard candy.

Tearing me away from the screen, my phone rings with the sound of an incoming FaceTime call. I lean to see who's calling, and when I see it's my mom, I hurry and put on a t-shirt.

"Hi, mama!" I say excitedly, waving at the camera.

"Hi, honey!" she says, waving back in the same manner. "Is this a good time?"

I plop down on the couch, legs crossed at the ankle on the small coffee table in front of me. "It's a great time," I say. "I'm almost all settled in."

"So, you made it there safe?"

"Yep," I say, looking around. "The movers were a big help with getting stuff up the stairs. We were all sweating like crazy once it was done, and I arranged it all by myself. Wanna see?"

"Of course!"

I show her around without having to go far, and she fawns over my cute space.

"It's adorable, sweetie," she says. "It looks perfect for you."

"I love it so far," I say. "I'm really comfortable here. I think I'm gonna just chill today, then tomorrow go out and try to find a job. Maybe the day after that, find some open calls." I sigh and shake my head. "I'm too tired for that today, though."

"Take a day," she says. "I don't want you overworking yourself."

"Mom, I won't."

"April, listen to me," she says. "Number one, I'm your mother. I'm allowed to worry. Number two, it's not like it hasn't happened before. I don't want you to get to a place where you can't pull yourself out and remind yourself that these are _jobs_. There are other aspects in life, too."

"I'll be fine, mama," I say. "I promise. I'm older now. That whole obsessive nervous breakdown thing won't happen again."

She gives me a look like she doesn't believe me, but I ignore it.

"Oh!" Mom says, looking to the side. "Alice just walked in from practice. Allie! Come say hi to your sister."

"Duckie?!" I hear, then Alice's face appears on the screen, replacing Mom's. "Hi, sissy!"

"Hey, babe!" I say. My heart aches for a fleeting moment as I wish I could reach through the waves and hug her. I haven't seen my littlest sister for what feels like forever. I'm used to living without my family, seeing as I was away in college for four years, but they were tangible then. We were in the same state. Now, it feels like I'm worlds away.

"I'm so happy to see you!" she exclaims.

"I know," I say. "How was practice?"

Alice is 14, a freshman in high school, and on a travel volleyball team that plays year-round. She surprised all of us with her athletic skills, seeing as no one else in the family has them.

"Good," she says. "I banged up my elbows, but I'm alright."

"You're gonna come visit me soon, right?" I say.

"Yeah, duh," she says. "As soon as Mom lets me take the train by myself."

"Not gonna happen!" Mom shouts from far away, and Alice rolls her eyes.

"Yeah, so like, when I'm 40," she says, scoffing.

"She'll cave one of these days," I say. "Is Kim around?

Alice shakes her head. "Her car's gone. I think she's at Brian's."

Brian, her boyfriend. It doesn't surprise me, Kimmie is boy-crazy, much to the chagrin of our parents.

"Well, tell her I said hi when she gets back," I say.

"Have you heard from Libby lately?" Mom calls.

"No," I answer. "Last time she texted was probably… last week, maybe?"

"You should call her," Mom says. "She'd like to hear from you."

"Maybe," I say.

Interrupting the call, another incoming one comes in - and it's no one but my oldest sister.

"Oh, that's her," I say. "I should answer. I'll text you, Allie, okay? Bye mom, love you!"

"Love you, sweetheart! Call if you need anything. We miss you!"

I switch over and answer the call, seeing Libby's face on my screen now. "Hi, baby sis," she says, flashing a smile.

"Hey," I say. "I was just FaceTiming with Mom and Allie, talking about you."

"Gossips," she says, laughing.

"You know us," I say. "What's up?"

"More like what's up with _you_?" she says. "Big city girl, moving out on your own. I feel like I barely know you… what happened to the baby who held onto the skirt of my dress to learn how to walk?"

I roll my eyes playfully. Libby brings up that story every chance she gets, and people eat it up.

"Where's Maeve?" I ask, referencing my 6-month-old niece. Libby graduated college two years ago, and has since gotten married to her high school sweetheart and had a baby.

"Napping," she says. "That's how I got a chance to call. She has been crazy fussy lately."

"Aw, poor baby."

"More like aw, my poor ears," she laughs. "So, how's Chicago? Are you liking it?"

I walk to the window and look outside again. "I am," I say. "But it doesn't feel like home yet."

"It will," she says, voice warm. "Just give it time."

…

The following day, I spontaneously find a job working at a cosmetics store called Lush. They sell a ton of organic products, and I find myself fascinated with everything. We never had anything like this back in Ohio, and my bubbly personality is perfect for selling and relating to customers. They hired me on the spot, right after the interview, and were flexible with my specific hours. I need to audition during the day, so I can only come to work after 3. They were glad to oblige.

On the night after I get the job, I sit on my couch going over a monologue I plan on using to audition tomorrow. There's a big call for a few different theaters, and I want to make it to all of them. My philosophy is to never put all my eggs in one basket; if I spread myself out, I'm bound to get a job somewhere.

Hopefully, one that pays.

I'm going to the Highland Park Players, the Three Brothers Theatre, and the Circle Theatre tomorrow. The next day, my list is even longer. I need to learn a strong monologue now and get it down before I leave in the morning.

I should've done this sooner, I realize. But so many things were happening at once over the past few days that I barely got a chance to breathe, let alone memorize an audition piece.

I flip through a folder I've kept of good monologues to audition with. After choosing between two, I decide on something from a play called _And Turning, Stay_.

I stand in front of the full length mirror I've placed in the living room, wearing a pair of underwear and a tank top, my hair tied up in a curly, messy bun. I still haven't gone and gotten that air conditioning unit, and even so, I'm pretty sure someone else already did. My loss.

"You're in high school," I tell myself. "You've been led on and had your heart broken too many times."

I take a deep breath and close my eyes, holding the script between both hands as I look down to read.

"Don't you dare walk away from me!" I say, making fiery eye contact with myself in the mirror. "And don't tell me you're sorry! And don't tell me to forget it, and don't you dare tell me to 'let it go.' God knows, I'd like to. Wait," I stop, scanning the lines because I got lost. I pinpoint the spot with my finger and nod, continuing. "Right. Okay.. um, God knows I'd like to. I wish I could, but I can't! I can't forget that we had something, and you're running away. You're running away!"

I stop, clear my throat and mouth the words. Then, say them stronger.

"You're running away!" I say, tone changing. "Don't you see, Mark? You're running from what I've searched for all my life! Why, because you're scared? Well, I'm scared too, but you and I - we have something worth fighting for." I stop. "Hit that. Hit… _fighting_ for. We have something worth _fighting_ for."

I nod, encouraging myself, and continue.

"We could make it work, I'm not saying it would be easy, but I care about you. And I know deep down, under this bravado - wait." My eyes backtrack. "Spitting out the word. Oh, okay. _Bravado_ , under this _bravado_ … you care about me. And that's what it's all about, Mark, don't you get it? It's the human experience. You can pretend all you want, but you're only lying to yourself. You're denying the simple and wonderful fact that you are emotional, vulnerable, and alive."

I let out a deep breath, raising my eyebrows at the mouthful of words. I don't let myself get intimidated, though. Partly because I'm confident I can do this, and partly because there's one more paragraph left.

"Can you honestly stand there and tell me that I mean nothing to you? That everything that happened that night was a lie? That you feel nothing?"

I read the stage directions: _Amy is crying or close to it. The following is a painful statement that she makes not to attack or threaten Mark but rather, allow herself closure with the situation._ I steel myself and start in on it.

"I feel sorry for you, Mark," I say. "I'll move on. I'll find someone else. I'll be alright, because I will know that I tried. That I did everything I could. But someday you will look back, and you will realize what you threw away. And you will regret it always."

I nod, giving the piece a once-over before raising my eyes up to the mirror again. I lock in with myself and can't help but smile. I'll learn this piece, and I'll own it tomorrow. There's no way I won't get a part in something.

I lay in bed later that night, staring at my ceiling fan as I try to get the words right. I know I'm going over it too much, that if I keep at it, all my memorization will cancel out and I'll blank tomorrow. I need to rest; sleep is the best option at this point, but I can't seem to make myself.

"I feel sorry for you, Mark," I murmur. "I'll move on, I'll find someone else. I'll be alright, because I will know… I will know that I… I tried."

My eyelids are heavy, sinking lower with every word. But as I realize I'm falling asleep, lying there in bed next to the window in my pajama shorts and no shirt, sweating, I jolt awake.

"That I did everything I could," I say. "But someday you will look back, and you will realize what you threw away. And you will… you will…" I yawn. "Regret it always."

I reach over, tug on the string of my bedside lamp, and fall asleep.

…

The auditions are like cattle calls. They keep men and women separate, and while I was always a standout in my hometown, here I feel like anything but. I wore my best audition clothes - neutral colors, no patterns, nothing showy, but not marmy either. It's a delicate mix. I tied my hair away from my face so my features would be memorable, and kept my face mostly free of makeup. But still, though I'm perfectly memorized and have done everything to prepare, my stomach jumps with nerves at the sight of all these other girls coming to audition for the same part I'm here for: Vera, in _Harvey_.

"You can do this," I mutter to myself, jiggling my knee. My hands and feet are sweating - my shoes hide the latter, but I keep having to wipe my palms on my pants. And it's way too hot to be wearing full-length pants, so that was a mistake in itself. I just hope my face isn't tomato-red.

"April Kepner?"

I stand up from where I'm sitting, trying desperately to avoid eye contact with any of the women looking my way as I walk toward the audition room. Once the door shuts behind me, I'm encapsulated in a bubble of silence and cool air. Suddenly, I feel much better. Though there are four pairs of eyes watching me, waiting on me, I feel at ease.

"Hi, how are you?" I say, smiling. They all nod and smile, and I get comfortable in the middle of the floor. "I'm April Kepner," I say. "I'm 23, and I'm auditioning for the role of Vera."

They nod again. The role is a little old for me, but I'm confident in my abilities.

I go through my monologue, messing up one part in the middle that I try to cover up. When I finish, they all make eye contact, thank me, and usher me out of the room, having given me no cues whether they thought I did well or whether they thought I bombed.

I stand outside the venue in the dripping heat, feeling beads of sweat roll down my neck. I don't know whether to feel confident about how that went or not. I messed up a line, one I thought I had down, and I shouldn't have. I know I won't stop beating myself up over that, at least until I get to the next audition and do better. I have to do better at the next one, doing the same or worse isn't an option. I always have to improve.

The next two go well. I still can't stop sweating, but by the time I stop back home to change into my work clothes, my stomach has settled. The auditions won't leave my mind for the rest of the night, but that's okay. I can mull over what can be worked on while I try and sell some really good-smelling products to customers.

My first day at work is by far less stressful than the day preceding, and it passes quickly. When I'm done, exhaustion hits me like a wave and it's all I can do to lift my feet and get on the train back to the Loop, where it's quiet because business hours are finished. The only thing lit up on my strip is the deli below my apartment, and without having to think, my stomach growls and lets me know what it wants.

Lord knows I don't have the energy or inclination to cook. Nothing sounds better than a sandwich from the deli and a cold drink to go along with it, because even after the sun has gone down, the air is still thick as ever.

A little bell rings when I push the door open, but no one is behind the counter. I peer outside again to check the hours and see it's still open, so I open and close the door a second time so the bell will ring again.

I sit at the bar on a plush red stool and drop my face in my hands. I don't know if I've ever been this tired, and I'm not sure how I'm going to do it all again tomorrow.

"Hi," I hear, and pick my head up. "Can I get you something? Sorry, took a sec. I was in the back. Barely heard the door."

Standing behind the counter is a boy who contradicts my expectations. I expected the employee at the deli to be an old, hairy man with a thick New York accent, why - I'm not sure. But this boy is nothing like that. He's tall, muscular, with well-kept stubble and sparkling green eyes. He's wearing dark-rimmed glasses and his voice is smooth and raspy; his skin the color of rich chestnut.

"Oh," I say. "Hi."

"Hungry?" he asks.

"Yeah," I say, realizing I don't have something in mind to order. "I… uh…"

He smiles softly. When he does that, his whole face lights up. "The King Club is really good," he says. "Especially if you're hungry. It's double everything."

I grin, but it's weak. "That sounds good," I say. "I'll take it."

"Coming right up," he says, as he starts to gather the ingredients from somewhere I can't quite see.

The place is empty, save for me and him. From his name tag, I can see that his name is Jackson Avery - working in Avery's Deli.

"Do you own this place?" I ask, breaking the silence.

He looks up while continuing to work on my sandwich. "My family does, yeah," he says.

I nod. "Cool."

He shrugs. "Kind of," he says. "Guaranteed me a job, at least. Why?"

"Oh," I say. "I don't know. Just… saw your name tag, and you know, the name of the place… put two and two together, I guess."

He chuckles. "Pretty _and_ smart."

I blush. It's not like I'm unused to attention from boys, because I've had boyfriends before. Just two. One in early college and one for about two months in late college, until my big city dreams scared him away and he broke up with me. He was the one I wanted to give my virginity to, but it just never happened. Now, it feels like a stigma that I still have it.

I shake my head to clear it. I don't know why my thoughts wandered there.

As I look up and Jackson sees my blush, he flashes me a big, warm grin. Different than the soft one from before. It lights me up inside and makes me feel all tingly. It's the first real smile I've seen since moving in, and I know I'll keep it with me.

We sit in silence as he finishes the sandwich, then sets it on the counter in front of me a few minutes later.

"Six dollars and twenty-five cents," he says.

I dig in my purse for my debit card, then hand it over.

"Oh," he says, eyes darting to the sign on the register reading: CASH ONLY.

"Oh…" I echo, without meaning to. "I didn't know… I didn't… I didn't see. I'm sorry. You…" As I stumble over my words, my eyes grow hot with the onset of tears. It's stupid to cry over something as small as this, but after the day I've had, it's inevitable. "I'm sorry," I whimper. "I'm not… I don't mean to cry, I won't take it. I don't have any cash. I'm sorry."

"Hey, hey," he says, shaking his head. "It's cool. You're fine. On the house."

"No," I say, sniffling. "I can't do that. I don't wanna take it from you, that's not right, I-"

"Hey," he says again, this time more insistently as he pushes the plate closer. "Have it. You'll like it. Seems like you've had a long ass day, and it'll make you feel better."

I pause for just a moment, locking eyes. "Really?" I say, raising my eyebrows. "Because you don't have to. If you just feel sorry for me…" My voice dies off. "You really don't have to."

"I want to," he says. "If you don't eat it, I will. And I've already had like, three today. I don't need any more. You're saving me, really."

I snort and wipe my nose with the back of my hand. "Well, when you put it like that."

I take the sandwich off the plate and attempt to wrap it in the paper underneath until he sees what I'm doing. "You don't have to leave," he says.

"Aren't you…" I point to the door. It says they close at 10pm, and it's 9:58 now. "You're closing."

He walks to the door, pulls the chain on the lit-up neon sign to turn it off. "I'm closed," he says. "But you can stay and chill."

"For real?"

"Yeah," he says, walking from the door to join me at the bar, sitting at the stool right next to mine. "You look like you could use a friend."

I make a small, pitiful sound. "I really could," I say.

As I take my first bite, Jackson stands and walks to the old-school jukebox in the far corner. He flips through the music, and as he walks back to me I hear the first notes of 'The Best You Had' by Nina Nesbitt.

"I love this song," I say, mouth full of sandwich.

He laughs, shoulders bouncing. "What was that?" he says.

I swallow and roll my eyes at myself. "I said, I love this song," I repeat.

"Oh," he says, sitting. "I do, too. I always pick it first on that thing."

"Looks like it's from 1940," I say.

"Probably is," he says. "My mom likes vintage stuff. But I like new music, so we compromised."

I smirk. "That works."

He leans with his elbow on the counter for a moment, eyes roving around the room. "So, you work at Lush?" he asks, when they land on me.

I chew, screwing up my eyebrows. I took my apron off and left it at the store, and my outfit consists of just a black shirt and black jeans.

"How'd you know?" I ask.

"I can smell you," he says, laughing again. "I'd know that smell anywhere. Girls are obsessed with it."

"They have guy stuff, too," I say.

"I never said I didn't appreciate it," he says. "I've used their bar shampoo before. Makes my hair super soft."

"Oh, yeah," I say. "That stuff's nice."

"You should hook me up sometime," he says.

"I can," I say.

"Oh, no," he says, waving one hand. "Totally kidding. You don't have to."

I reach up and touch his hair, smoothing my hand over it. It's softer than anything I've ever felt, and that action catches us both off-guard for a split second until I pull my hand away. "Sorry," I stammer. "That was weird."

"It was fine," he says, running his hand over where mine had just been. "It was… yeah."

I clear my throat. "But, um, yeah, I work there," I say. "Just started today."

"Oh, for real?"

"Yeah," I say. "I just moved here."

"To Chicago?" I nod. "I didn't know you were a newbie!" he says. "Well, welcome. What brings you here?"

"Theater," I say.

He groans, smiling playfully at me while rolling his eyes. "Oh shit, a theater kid," he says. "I changed my mind. You gotta leave."

"Shut up," I say, eyes wide as I fight a smile. "Seriously, shut up. We're not all the same. I'm not some psycho like Rachel Berry."

"As if I have any clue who the fuck that is," he says, laughing at himself. "Somebody from Shakespeare, or something?"

"Get out," I say, taking a big bite of the sandwich. After I chew, I say, "Seriously. I'm a cool theater kid."

"Oxymoron," he says. "Those don't exist."

"Wow…"

"Hey. Just stating facts."

"You'll be eating your words when you see my name up on that Chicago Theater marquee," I say, pointing a finger in the air.

"Just because you're talented doesn't mean you're not a nerd," he says.

"Suddenly, I regret coming here," I say.

"No, you don't," he says, without missing a beat.

I sigh. "You're right." I finish the sandwich and take a long drink of the water he poured for me, feeling better now than I have all day. "So, what do you do? Besides work here?"

"You mean slaving away at my mom's deli isn't enough to impress you?" he asks, eyes glinting.

"That's not what I meant at all," I say, eating my words. "Of course it's-"

"Chill," he says. "This isn't all I do. I'm fucking with you."

"Oh," I say, smirking.

"I'm saving up to go to law school," he says. "Well, to take the LSAT. I finished college, and that's what I wanna do. So, I'm working to make it there."

"That's so cool," I say. "I could never be a lawyer."

"Oh, yeah?" he says. "Why not?"

I shrug. "I don't argue. I tend to cry in situations like that, and I don't think that'd be very badass in the courtroom."

He snorts. "Probably not," he says. "But I'm sure you're a badass on stage."

"I am," I say.

"Humble, too."

"Actors can't be humble," I say. "That's not our thing."

"Being cool isn't your thing, either," he says, and by the look in his eyes I know he's joking.

"If anyone's the nerd, it's you. Your face is probably in a book all the time," I say, trying to come up with a witty comeback and failing.

"Good one," he says, and we both crack up laughing. "I mean, I have the glasses and everything."

"I like your glasses," I say, looking at them.

"Oh," he says. "Well, thanks. They like you, too."

I scoff. "They're pretty funny."

"They think you're pretty, funny enough," he says.

"Smooth," I say, but duck my head because the blush is back.

"Let me take your plate," he says, standing as he walks with it behind the counter.

"I should get going," I say, standing too. I clear my throat. "I have another long day tomorrow. I have to get some sleep."

"Oh, yeah," he says. "Okay. Let me walk you out so I can lock up."

I grab my purse and head out the door I came in, back into the thick, muggy air. I only take a few steps before opening the door next to the deli entrance, the one with stairs leading up to my studio.

"Wait," he says, lingering. "You live up there?"

"Yeah," I say.

"That's where you just moved into?"

I giggle. "Yes."

"Damn," he says. "I had no idea you were so close. That's kinda awesome."

"Yeah," I say. "It kinda is. Especially if those sandwiches are gonna be a thing."

"I told you, you'd like it," he says. "But, um, hey. We should exchange numbers, or something. Just in case. Like, you know, we're practically neighbors. Neighbors have each other's numbers."

"Yeah, they do," I say. "Here, give me your phone. I'll put mine in."

We exchange devices, and there's a brief, quiet moment between us after we hand them back.

"Thanks for the sandwich," I say finally, shifting my weight from foot to foot. "And for keeping me company."

"I should thank you for that, actually," he says. "First good conversation I've had in weeks, probably."

"Anytime, then," I say, then giggle.

"No, really," he says. "Stop in whenever you want. There'll always be something for you."

"Okay." I can't stop grinning for some reason. "I have to go to bed," I say, hand on the doorknob. "So… text me, or something."

The smile on his face lasts. "I will," he says. "Goodnight."

"Night," I say back, and give him a little wave before disappearing up my stairs and into the apartment.

Once I'm alone, I close the door behind me and set my phone down. I flick a soft light on and get in the shower, taking my time while under the steady stream of water to think about the night I had.

I've never spent time with a boy like Jackson before - one who teases me, but who's flirty at the same time, and who makes me feel like we've known each other for years. I smile as I think about his face, his smile, the way his cute glasses looked on his face.

I wonder if I have a crush, then wonder if that's stupid. I'm 23 years old; shouldn't I be over crushes at this point?

I get out of the shower and walk to pick up my phone wearing pajama shorts and a bralette, my hair in wild, wet curls down my back. The screen lights up - _new suggested account on Twitter!_

I haven't been on my account for a while, but I swipe on the notification anyway and it takes me to accounts it thinks I should follow. At the top of the list is a profile picture I recognize - it's Jackson, wearing those same glasses with a cocky grin on his face, sunlight streaming down. His display name is '~j MaN~' and his handle is 1andonlyjavery.

His bio reads: "i want pizza."

"Oh god," I say, then sit down on my couch to scroll through his account. I can't help it.

His latest tweet was from earlier today.

 **3:32pm- hot as balls out here damn!**

I roll my eyes and look at a retweet underneath that one. It's from a quote account, the kind that that get way too much attention.

 **2:01pm- RT ima need my queen to show up real quick, i gotta get a girl who i can treat like a princess and show what a real mans like**

But then, below that, there's:

 **1:38pm- tag someone who needs this awesome pancake!**

I roll my eyes again, willing myself not to go any further, but it's so tempting. Underneath the stupid pancake post is a group of four selfies, pictures I find myself staring at for much too long. In one, he has his glasses off, which makes him look totally different. He's wearing a blue dress shirt with tiny white polka dots and a black hat, smiling a smile that could end all others. My heart starts beating faster as I look at him, the sun shining off his beautiful skin just right.

The second one is him on the beach, shirtless. In the next, he's flashing a peace sign with his eyes closed and a serious expression on his face, then one of him in graduation robes. He graduated from DePaul University, a college here in the city.

I scroll back to the top of his page and my thumb hovers over the follow button. Without any further thought, I press down and immediately exit out, flipping back to my own page to see what he'll see when he checks his new follower.

My display name is just simply 'April K.' and my handle is pinkladybroadwaybaby. Which I've had since I was fifteen.

My last tweet is simple, and I don't tweet often.

 **Saturday, 11:02am- 525,600 minutes in a year and I feel like I just spent ten thousand of those moving. But I'm finally here! #ChiCity #CityGirl #OneStepCloser**

My profile picture is somewhat old, taken of me in sunglasses on the quad while I was still in college. My bio is just as simple as everything else: "April Kepner. 23. Actress. 'I'm just like my country - I'm young, scrappy, and hungry, and I am not throwing away my shot.'"

I'm stupid for hoping he likes it. Hoping he likes me. I cannot believe I have a crush.

I put my phone down and plug it into the wall, brushing out my hair painstakingly before retiring to bed. It's so hot in my apartment, I can't even have the sheet on while I sleep.

Even though I need rest, I toss and turn and can't get thoughts of Jackson out of my head. I lie on my back with my knees bent towards the ceiling, forehead creased with annoyance.

The thoughts racing through my mind shouldn't be there. I'm thinking of his hands, his lips, his body. I'm thinking of all those things on me, the way he would feel here, in my bed, tangled in the sheets with me.

I've never slept beside a man before, nor have I gone further than second base. The only orgasms I've ever had I've given myself, which is what's about to happen right now. I'm alone, in charge of myself, and there's nothing wrong with it. It'll probably help me sleep, anyway.

I flip over onto my stomach to put some weight against my hand, and slip my fingers inside the front of my underwear. I close my eyes and instantly picture Jackson's face - his beautiful eyes, light stubble, and plush lips, and start moving my fingers in circles.

"Oh…" I whimper, pressing my face into the pillow. I lift my hips and raise my eyebrows, opening my mouth as the coil tightens in my lower belly. Using my free hand, I reach to tightly grip one breast, squeezing as my breathing comes louder and heavier.

I pinch my eyes shut and can't help but work my hips against my moving hand. I take a deep, desperate inhale as I find my clit and rub my fingers rough against it, and then come with a relieved-sounding moan. It didn't take long, and I hadn't expected it to. When I have a specific vision in mind, it doesn't usually take much time.

I get up, wash my hands and change my underwear. When I get back into bed, I fall asleep easily and dream about the boy from downstairs.


	2. Chapter 2

**JACKSON**

After April retreats upstairs to her apartment, I go back inside the deli and finish closing. I wash the remaining dishes, lock the fridges, and set the alarm before coming out a second time.

As I'm on the sidewalk, I see light spilling from the upstairs unit. Unable to help myself, I take a few steps out and look up, easily able to see into April's apartment without shades drawn. Her bed is by the window and her couch against the wall, facing the TV.

Surprising me, she suddenly appears. Her hair is wet and long down her back, and she's only wearing a pair of pink cloth shorts and some sort of lacy bra thing that matches. My eyes widen as I look at her; tearing my gaze away seems impossible. She's standing in the middle of the room on her phone, hip popped out, free hand resting on her flat stomach.

Her skin is practically glowing, clean and fresh from a shower I'm assuming, and she has curves in all the right places. She skims her hand over her belly as she's distracted with her phone, then adjusts the strap of her bra. I follow her hand as she pulls the strap up from where it fell down her shoulder, and chew on the inside of my lip as I let my eyes wander over her chest. From what I can see, her boobs are perfect. With the amount of cleavage showing, I can see they aren't too big - the perfect size to fit in my hands.

I have to stop. Like, right now.

She's smiling at something on her screen. I want to know what it is, I want to be in that room with her, I want to see this outfit up close.

I know I'm being creepy. I force myself to look away and start walking towards the train. But before I get too far, I steal one more glance over my shoulder - only to find her light already turned out.

When I get home, my roommate isn't there and I'm relieved. I'm still in my head, which is where I want to be, and he's the chatty type. Always bantering with me, telling me about his day and asking about mine, getting under my skin. Usually, I find it entertaining. But tonight, I don't want to stop thinking about her.

I get in the shower and stand under the water, letting it run over my hair and face as I think about April and the way she looked in the window. I shouldn't still be holding onto the image, I'm aware, because it was a pretty voyeuristic thing to do. But it won't leave my head. It's seared in.

As I stand there, water dripping down my chin and over my shoulders, I'm already half-hard as I think about her lips. Pink and perfect, contrasting against her pale skin and freckles. I think about what she'd look like on her knees, that pretty mouth wrapped around my dick…

No. No, that's not okay to go there. I don't even know this girl, there has to be some sort of protocol surrounding this.

But I'm not thinking with my brain anymore. My rationale is located between my legs, and her body is all I can think about. All I can picture.

I close my eyes and rest one hand against the cool tile of the shower wall, leaning forward as I drop my chin to my chest. I stroke myself slowly, letting the water slide over my shoulders and back, and imagine I'm fucking her.

I've been with my fair share of girls. I've never lacked in that department, but something about her is different. It's more than an interest, it's a deep attraction. And I'm not sure I've ever experienced that before. It's something new - something heavy that's settled in my gut and rooted itself there. There's no budging it, no brushing her face out of my head.

Her face, her boobs, the way her ass looked in her jeans. But at the same time, I'm thinking about her laugh, the way she teased me, and the sparkle in her eyes when she talked about theater, what she loves doing most.

Throwing a wrench in my pleasure, the question crosses my mind if she has a boyfriend. It doesn't seem like it, with the way she was flirting back with me earlier. I wonder how many guys she's slept with, or if she's thought about sleeping with me, even in passing. I wonder what she's like in bed - if she's loud and bossy, or quiet and submissive, if she knows what she wants or if she'd want me to take control.

I'd gladly take control. But I'd also let her do it, too. I'm not picky.

My hand moves faster, fist gripping tighter, as I try and imagine how her thighs would feel around my head. In college, I had a nickname I boasted up and down about - pussy champ. Everyone knew how good I was at going down on girls, and it's a skill that's only grown stronger with time. I could show her what a real orgasm feels like, what it's like to be completely worshiped and taken care of. I bet no one's ever done that for her before.

I swipe my thumb over the head and pretend it's her tongue, and that thought alone makes me come. I keep beating it as the liquid shoots out in disjointed spurts, what doesn't get on my hand falls to the shower floor and swirls down the drain.

I rest my forehead against the tile and feel myself start to soften. I find myself wishing I wasn't alone in this shower, and wonder if I've ever wanted anyone quite this badly.

I get out of the shower and crawl into bed, pulling out my phone to see I have a new follower on Twitter. Not recognizing the handle, I click on the profile and can't help but smile. It's her.

'April K.,' apparently also known as pinkladybroadwaybaby. I can't help but chuckle, shaking my head at the cheesy name. I don't know what any of it means, but I'm sure she does.

I scroll down her page, checking out her latest tweets.

 **Saturday, 11:02am- 525,600 minutes in a year and I feel like I just spent ten thousand of those moving. But I'm finally here! #ChiCity #CityGirl #OneStepCloser**

 **Friday, 9:31pm- When you accidentally sing aloud while listening to the Wicked soundtrack in your headphones and someone stops you to say you have a nice voice… #Galinda #Oops**

 **Thursday, 5:49am- The theatre nerd in me loves #JesusChristSuperstar, but the Sunday School in me wonders if that means I'm going to hell…**

 **Thursday, 6:00pm- Some days I like to pretend I'm Roxie from #Chicago, but I think we all know I'm more Sandy from #Grease (in her poodle skirt stage.)**

 **Wednesday, 4:03pm- Can I just be Julie Andrews? #SolveAProblemLikeMaria #SolveAProblemLikeApril? #PleaseCastMe**

 **Tuesday, 9:09pm- Just read 'Dog Sees God' for the first time! Stunning!**

 **Monday, 10:03pm- You want a revolution? I want a revelation!**

 **Sunday, 7:11pm- What about me is so scary to men?! Honestly you'd think I would have overcome this CURSE by now**

The smile doesn't leave my face. She's such a nerd.

I pull up her contact and press the button in the upper right corner to compose a new message.

 **SENT 11:14pm- pink lady broadway baby huh?**

I don't expect an answer; I know she's asleep. But I hope I'll wake up to one.

…

Time passes slowly at the deli the next day. My shift is from 2-close, and from the moment I clock in, I'm wondering if April will come in tonight like she did yesterday.

I didn't have a message waiting for me this morning, but one comes around lunchtime. It's simple, but makes me grin like an idiot.

 **RECEIVED 12:40pm- Shut. Up.**

There's a steady flow of orders during business hours, which is how it usually works in the Loop. While people are at their jobs, we have customers. But after 6pm, the flow slows down considerably and I'm left to fester with my thoughts after cleaning everything that needs to be cleaned, counting my cash drawer, and rewriting the specials board for the next day.

I sit at the bar with my LSAT study book open to the page where I left off a few days ago. I nudge my glasses up on my nose and dive into the work, letting myself get lost in the jargon and phrases I feel comfortable with at this point.

A few hours pass with only a handful of customers, most who buy pre-made sandwiches that don't require any effort from me. I've gotten through a good amount of study pages when the bell above the door rings, but I'm so concentrated I barely hear it.

"Hey."

I look up and see her, and smile while trying to keep my cool.

"Is ignoring customers something you always do?" she asks, chuckling as she walks further inside. I look at the clock; it's about the same time as last night, and she smells like Lush again.

"Nah," I say, shutting the book. "Just you."

"Now I feel special," she says, sitting at the stool next to mine just as I stand.

"Hungry?" I ask.

"Starving," she says. "And I brought cash this time, don't worry. I'm not gonna cry again."

I smile softly, walking around her to head behind the counter. As I go, I look at her back and the small strip of skin showing between the hem of her shirt and the waist of her jeans. I force myself to look away, because if I don't, last night's whirlwind will come back. And that really can't happen while she's sitting right here.

"It wasn't a big deal," I say.

"Well, it'd be pretty messed up if I came in here every night and took free sandwiches from you."

"You're gonna come in here every night?" I say, raising my eyebrows. "I'm gonna have to stock up."

She narrows her eyes, but can't help her grin. "I have no energy to cook for myself," she says. "That's not to say I'm not good at it. Because I am."

"I'll believe that when I see it," I say. "'Til then, you're just depending on my sub-par sandwich-making abilities?"

"Guess so," she says, eyes twinkling.

"Okay. Coming right up, pink lady," I say, and her face blushes a brilliant red.

"Hey," she says. "Shut up. I mean it. I made my Twitter when I was like, a sophomore in high school. And yours isn't much better, one and only J. Avery."

"But it's true, isn't it?" I counter back.

"I'm sure there are other J. Averys out there," she says, resting forward with her arms on the counter. "There has to be."

"But none quite like me," I say, cocky. It's a default personality, the arrogant one. It's not exactly what I want to revert to with her, because it's not the real me. But it's hard not to go there when I'm flirting as hard we are right now. "Believe me."

"Hmm," she says.

"And I'm sure there are no other pink lady broadway babies, either," I say. "I'm gonna have to shorten that. Pinky."

She rolls her eyes. "Stop!" she says, smacking the air in my direction. "I shouldn't have ever followed you."

"Yeah, you totally set yourself up," I say. "And hey, how come you don't post any selfies?"

She shakes her head, shrugging. "Why would I? Everyone who follows me knows what I look like already. They're not gonna get like, a billion retweets and likes like yours."

I puff my chest out subtly. "You saw that, huh?"

She rolls her eyes again. "I'm sure you're used to girls falling at your feet," she says. "Just another way for you to show off…" She nudges the book I left beside her. "So, both brains and beauty. Must be nice."

"Like you have any room to talk," I say, looking down at the sandwich I'm making instead of up at her. Suddenly, it's become way too hard to make eye contact.

She shoots me a look, a strange smile on her face. "What, are you saying you think I'm pretty?"

"You already knew that," I say. "I told you yesterday."

"I didn't know you were serious," she says, messing with her hair that's in a bun.

I shrug, suddenly self-conscious, worlds different from the persona I wore just moments ago.

"I'm just wondering," I say. "On your account, were you trying to fit in as many theater references are you could? Was that some kind of challenge you had going with yourself?"

"Were you stalking my Twitter?" she asks, raising her eyebrows.

"The last like, ten tweets were full of references that I had no idea what the hell you were talking about. I don't think that counts as stalking."

"That's totally stalking…" she sings, resting her cheek in her palm. "Stalker."

"Whatever," I say. "It just told me what I already knew, that you're a big nerd. Theater geek."

"You have no room to talk about being a nerd!" she says, lifting the huge book next to her. "Ahem? What would you call this?"

"Being studious," I say, cutting the sandwich in half and putting it on a plate. "Here, nerd."

"Well, this nerd auditioned for _White Christmas_ today," she says, sounding proud.

"I've never heard of that," I say. "And Christmas? In July?"

"There's a long rehearsal process," she says. "You don't audition for holiday shows during the holidays. That would make no sense."

"Well, excuse me."

She laughs and takes a bite. "Excused," she says.

"Is it good?" I ask, referencing the sandwich I made.

She nods, still chewing. "Yeah, and I'm starving."

I clean up the dishes I dirtied and walk back around to sit by her. "So, what's _White Christmas_? The song, or something?"

"No," she says, wiping her face with a napkin. "It's based on an old movie. It does have songs in it, though, and I sang for my audition today."

"How'd you do?"

"Good, I think," she says.

"I didn't know you sang," I say.

"There's a lot you don't know about me," she says, voice turning coy. "I've sung my whole life."

"The _Wicked_ soundtrack in your headphones, right?"

She blushes again. "Okay, stop."

"Just repeating your own words back to you."

"My very _embarrassing_ words, apparently," she says, avoiding my eyes. "I need to go and delete that. I should probably just delete the whole thing."

"No, don't," I say, smiling. "It's cute."

Something flashes across her eyes. "Cute for employers, though?"

"You don't have anything bad on there," I say. "Don't delete it."

She sighs and continues eating, opening the LSAT book and flipping through it absentmindedly. "And you claim you don't understand what _I'm_ talking about," she says, looking bewilderedly at the pages. "These words are huge. None of this makes sense."

"It does to a lawyer," I say, leaning to see what she's reading.

"Future lawyer," she says, touching my shoulder with hers. But as soon as the contact happens, she pulls away and finishes the last bite of her sandwich.

A little while later, April starts to yawn though she tries to hide it.

"You better go to sleep," I say.

"I know…" she says, rubbing her eyes as she lifts her plate. "Want me to wash this?"

I snort. "You don't work here," I say.

"Yeah, but you're closed," she says. "I feel bad."

"I don't mind," I say. "It's one plate. Go on, go upstairs."

"Fine, fine," she says. "I know where I'm not wanted."

I roll my eyes. "Goodnight," I say.

She looks over her shoulder as she heads towards the door. "Goodnight, Jackson."

After she leaves, I close the deli just like the night before, and get on the train to go home. As I sit there on a hard blue seat, I pull out my phone and hope she's still awake.

 **SENT, 10:32pm- we should play 20 questions**

 **RECEIVED, 10:32pm- What, like you think of something and I have to ask descriptive questions to try and guess what it is?**

I make a sound in my throat and shake my head.

 **SENT, 10:33pm- no nerd. I mean more like have you ever then i guess. We should play since youre always jetting off on me to go tf to sleep**

 **RECEIVED, 10:33pm- You toldddd me to go to sleep!**

 **RECEIVED, 10:33pm- But sure. Let's play. Even though this game is totally for fuckboys.**

My mouth opens in an amused expression as I type.

 **SENT, 10:33pm- ur foul**

 **RECEIVED, 10:34pm- Okay so you better go first, since you apparently know this game so well...**

My thumbs hover over the keyboard as I wonder how I want to start, but I get another message before I can type anything new.

 **RECEIVED, 10:34pm- And don't ask me if I'm a virgin. Might as well just get it over with and tell you now. I am.**

I widen my eyes at the screen, in disbelief she was so candid and in disbelief at the fact itself. April doesn't strike me as a sexual person, but I definitely hadn't pegged her as a virgin. I wasn't planning on asking that, at least not right off the bat. I'm not a total douche.

 **SENT, 10:35pm- totally wasnt even gonna ask that**

 **RECEIVED, 10:35pm- Sure…**

 **SENT, 10:35pm- i wasnt! swear to god**

 **RECEIVED, 10:36pm- Okay fine. I believe you. Would you just ask already?**

 **SENT, 10:37pm- smh pushy. Ok… whats your fav color?**

 **RECEIVED, 10:37pm- That's all you got?**

 **SENT, 10:37pm- wdym?**

 **RECEIVED, 10:37pm- You're supposed to ask me something more interesting than THAT.**

I laugh to myself. Something tells me she almost wanted me to ask the virgin question. What other reason would she have for bringing it up?

 **SENT, 10:38pm- ok… who was ur first kiss? And when?**

It takes her a moment to respond, and I watch the screen with bated breath until she does.

 **RECEIVED, 10:41pm- Don't laugh. But I was a freshman in college, and he was the first boyfriend I ever had. His name was Brock Delton.**

 **SENT, 10:41pm- brock the rock. Broccoli the rockli**

 **RECEIVED, 10:41pm- Omg. stop!**

 **SENT, 10:41pm- ok, ur turn**

 **RECEIVED, 10:42pm- Same question. First kiss, who and when?**

I chuckle, knowing she's going to give me shit for my answer.

 **SENT, 10:42pm- first grade, kaitlyn parker. Best kiss of my life to this day**

 **RECEIVED, 10:43pm- s m h. I should've known.**

 **SENT, 10:43pm- what can i say? Ive always been a ladykiller. How are u still alive?**

 **RECEIVED, 10:43pm- Must be a miracle…**

I get off the train at my stop and slip my phone into my pocket as I trot down the stairs, then pull it back out when I make it to the sidewalk. I see that I have another message from April, waiting.

 **RECEIVED, 10:45pm- As much as I'd like to continue our game, I really do have to go to sleep. GN, J. Avery. See you tomorrow :)**

 **SENT, 10:45pm- gn pink lady ;)**

I put my phone away again and walk home with a smile on my face, coming through the door at around 11pm. Assuming April falls asleep fast, I type one last thing to her without yet turning on the kitchen light, knowing she'll see it when she wakes up.

 **SENT, 11:04pm- good morning sunshine. Have a great day today :)**

"What are you so smiley about, Avery?"

I look up with surprise, squinting as the light comes on. Standing in the door that leads to the living room is my roommate and close friend, Mark.

"Are you texting a girl, or looking at the memes I tagged you in today?"

I scoff and roll my eyes, setting my bag down on the nearby table. "Your memes suck, dude."

He chuckles. "So, a girl, then."

I set my phone on the table and walk to the fridge, grabbing a Gatorade and taking a few long swigs. "None of your-"

"April K.," he says, craning his neck to look at the screen of my phone that I forgot to click off.

"Hey," I say, snatching it up. "Mind your own business."

He raises his eyebrows. "Come on. Spill. Who is she? Tinder match? New employee?"

"No," I say, setting bag of Ramen noodles on the counter as I open the cupboard for a bowl.

"Then what? How'd you meet? Booty call?"

"No," I say. "Seriously, shut the fuck up."

"Touchy," he says. "Excuse me for trying to live vicariously through you. I'm in a dry spell, you know this."

"Been there for a while," I mutter.

"Don't rub it in," he says. "At least give me something. I'm not asking for a life story here, come on. Just a little."

I sigh, putting the bowl in the microwave and turning it on. "She lives upstairs," I say.

"Wait," he says. "Above the deli?"

"Uh-huh."

He opens his mouth and laughs triumphantly. "That's the best thing I've ever heard," he says.

"She came in a couple nights ago," I say. "She just moved here. She's in theater, trying to make it big or something."

"Is she hot?"

"Uh…" I stammer, picturing the angles of her face, her cleavage in the lacy bra thing, and the subtle swell of her hips. Then, my mind wanders to where it had last night, and I clear my throat uncomfortably. "Yeah."

"What's she got on her? Nice tits? Ass?"

"You're gross," I say. "You're the reason everybody hates men, you do know that, right?"

"Come on!" he laughs. "At least give me a size. 32, 34, what? A? C?" He pauses for effect. "D? Double?"

"I'm not answering you," I say, opening the microwave after it beeps.

"You're no fun," he grumbles. "Fine. What color hair, then?"

"Uh, reddish," I say. "Kind of coppery."

He shoots me a suggestive look. "A redhead…" he says, voice slick.

I raise my lip in disgust. "What?"

"You gonna bang her?"

"Jesus Christ," I murmur.

"What?" he says. "Are you?"

"I…" I shake my head, looking confused. "I don't fuckin' know! I met her two days ago. How should I know?"

He steps closer to me. "Do you want to?" I wait just a beat too long to respond. "You totally want to," he says.

I sprinkle the flavor packet in my noodles and stir them up, avoiding eye contact. "She's hot, I'm a guy, whatever," I say.

He leans on the counter, trying to catch my eye. "Wait," he says. "Do you have a thing for her? Is this like… is this like, a thing?"

"I don't know," I say, eyes wide. "You're giving me the third degree, and it's starting to piss me off. No more questions."

"Ooh, sensitive," he says with a laugh. "Alright, Casanova. But when it happens, let me know. I'll be sure to get out of the house. Or at least stay downstairs."

My room is upstairs, his down.

"Thanks," I grumble. "Are we done with this now? Because I'd like to eat my dinner in peace."

He rolls his eyes and punches my shoulder, which forces me to take a step back. "Yes, princess," he says. "Friendship hour is over. I'm gonna go play COD. When you're done fawning over your redhead, come join me and I'll beat your ass."

…

Two weeks pass. Two weeks where April comes into the deli every night after she's done with auditions that seem to never end. I make sure I'm on the closing shift every night, trading with who I need to, just so I can see her.

When we're not together during the day, we're texting. On and off, sporadically, weaving it into our real-life obligations. But something doesn't feel right if I'm not talking to her. She's quickly become part of my everyday routine.

She's the last person I talk to at night and the first one in the morning. Over the phone, that is.

Sometimes, she'll call and wake me up. With anyone else, I wouldn't answer. And if I did, I'd rip their head off. But with her, it's sweet. I look forward to hearing her voice in the morning.

And not unusually, her ringtone which I've embarrassingly set to 'Love on the Brain' by Rihanna, jolts me awake right next to my head on the pillow today.

"Morning," I say, voice raspy as my eyes are barely open.

"Hi, sleepyhead," she says, and I can hear the sounds of the city surrounding her. She's already out and about, which isn't new. "Did I wake you?"

I roll onto my back, one arm thrown over my head as I look at the ceiling. "Yeah," I say. "But it's alright."

She giggles softly. "Okay," she says. "I just wanted to talk to you. Hear your voice for a sec, because I'm kind of freaking out."

"Oh, yeah," I say. "Cast list comes up today."

Callbacks for _White Christmas_ happened a week ago, and April was on that list. Now, today's the day she finds out if she got the part of Betty Haynes.

"Yeah," she says, sighing. "And I'm just super nervous. I really, really want this part, Jackson."

"I know you do," I say. "You'll get it. You know you will. You blew everyone else out of the water at those callbacks, you were a total badass."

"But what if I don't?" she asks. "Get it, I mean?"

I raise my eyebrows. "Then you'll do some more auditions and get something even better," I say. "Onto the next one."

"You make it sound so easy," she says. "I just don't wanna get my heart broken over this. My hopes are up really high. I don't think they should be."

"Yes, they should," I say. "That's called confidence. You once told me that actors aren't supposed to be humble, remember? You can be excited, Pink."

She snorts. "I'll be excited after I get it," she says. "If I get it. If. I don't wanna jinx it."

"Nerdy-ass theater superstitions," I say. "What would happen if I said-"

"Don't you _dare_ ," she says.

"We aren't even in a theater right now," I say, smirking. "At least, I'm not."

"You will not say the name of the Scottish play on this super-important day of my life," she says, trying to be stern. "No way."

My lips twist in a smile. "Alright, boss," I say. "What time does the list come up?"

"I'm heading to the theater right before work," she says. "I'll know then. I won't be able to call you, but I'll try and text. Right now, I'm researching agents. I don't know if that's stupid or not, I'm not professional or anything. But I feel like I'll need one eventually."

"I'll be your agent," I say.

"Oh, you will?" she says, playfully.

"Yeah," I say. "I've heard I have a real way with words, and I'm very persuasive."

I can practically hear her eye-roll. "You stick to your law stuff, J, and let me worry about my agent. You'd probably put me in something like, I don't know… Avenue Q, or something equally as out-there."

I laugh, though we both know I have no clue what she's talking about.

"Okay," she says. "I should go. I'll stop by later, though, okay?"

"You say as if you don't stop by every night," I say.

"Well…" her voice fades. "You know what I mean. I'm just gonna… I'm gonna go now. Have a good day, okay?"

"You, too," I say. "And don't worry about it, April. You're gonna make it."

Her voice is nervous when she responds with, "If you say so."

I hang up the phone and rest it on my chest, smiling to myself after hearing her. Her light, airy voice always starts my day out right, even if she's nervous. She doesn't have any reason to be; she went over the lines and audition song with me, and she nailed them. Every time. I have no doubt she'll get that part.

"Heard you giggling on the phone with your girl this morning," Mark says, when I go downstairs and put my shoes on, getting ready to leave for work.

"She's not my girl," I say.

"Sure," he says, raising his eyebrows. "Sure, sure. Not your girl but calls you every morning to wake you up and comes to see you at work every night before you close. Definitely not your girl."

"It's not every morning," I say.

He doesn't say anything. He just bursts out laughing. I roll my eyes and leave the house, headed to the Loop to start my shift.

Not unusually, I think about April the whole time. But it's for a different reason than usual - this time I'm wondering if she got the part, because the news must be out by now. I check my phone whenever I get a chance, hoping to have heard from her, but I get nothing over the course of the day.

As closing time nears, I shoot her a text.

 **SENT, 9:14pm- did u hear anything?**

I get no response, though, as I clean up the store and casually check my phone. I'm in the back when I hear the bell above the door sound, and try to keep calm as I walk to the front.

I'm not surprised when I see that it's her, dressed in Lush gear, walking slowly inside.

"Hey…" she says, lackluster.

"Hey," I say, walking closer. "Did you get my text?"

She pulls her phone from her pocket and sets it on the counter. "Yeah, I did, sorry," she says. "I meant to answer."

I furrow my eyebrows. With her demeanor, the result of the cast list can't be good. I'm gearing myself up for the worst news, knowing I'll probably need to console her. I don't want her to cry, but if she does, it'll be okay. She'll get through it, and I'll help her.

"And…?" I say, prompting.

She sighs, resting both hands on the counter. "I kind of wanted to tell you in person…" she says, eyes on the floor. But in a split second, she lifts them and they're sparkling. "But I got the part! I'm Betty Haynes!"

My eyes widen and my mouth drops open. "Wait… what? Seriously?"

"Yes!" she says, and in one swift motion, she jumps into my arms and I lift her off the ground and spin her around.

This is the closest we've ever been. We've hugged a few times, but they were quick and friendly. This is different - it's making my heart hammer inside my chest, our faces in such close proximity. The tip of her nose is touching mine, and I can smell her sweet, minty breath. When she rests her forehead against mine and tightens her arms around my shoulders, I squeeze her waist and let the smile on my face break it in half.

I've never felt this much. Emotions are coursing through my body and I don't know what to make of them. Her happiness is contagious, exuding onto me like something tangible, and I'm beyond freaked out by the way I feel right now. It's like everything I've ever felt or will feel again is completely hinged on her.

It's terrifying.

I set her down and she brushes her hair out of her face. "I got it," she says. "And it pays. I can quit Lush and… I got it! It goes up at the Chicago Theater in December!"

I can't stop gaping. "I told you," I say. "I told you that you would."

"I know," she says, and throws her arms around my neck again to give me a big hug. "What you said this morning was everything I needed."

She pulls away to look at me, but doesn't move her arms. Our position is very intimate - her arms looped over my shoulders, torsos pressed together, breathing each other's air. My stomach is jumping with nerves, and I hope I don't smell too much like cold cuts.

"Thank you," she says, meaningfully.

"You don't need to thank me," I say.

"Yes, I do," she says, nodding, still in the same position. I really hope she can't feel my heart spazzing, about to burst from my chest.

I also hope she doesn't see my eyes dart to her lips. I want to kiss her. I want to kiss her really fucking bad, but at the same time I want nothing more than to run away from this situation, run away from how close we are.

"I'm so happy," she says, and her eyes glisten. "I wanted this to happen so bad, but I really wasn't sure if it would… I didn't want to be stupid about it, I was starting to wonder if coming here was completely irrational, but…" She exhales loudly. "I got the part. I really got it."

"You really got it," I echo. I want to reach up and tuck a piece of her hair behind her ear, but I don't. I don't know why, but I can't seem to move. "Of course you did."

She bursts into a grin, fingertips tracing nonsense shapes on the back of my neck. "I can go and get champagne at 7/11," she says, buzzing. "And I could help you close, if you want. And we could go upstairs and celebrate. There's no one I'd rather celebrate with than you. Does that sound good? Do you want me to go do that, and I can meet you back here?"

My stomach twists itself in knots as my mouth goes dry. "I - um…" I stammer. "Actually, I - uh…" I scratch my head and adjust my glasses. "I gotta close this place myself. And I have a ton of LSAT studying to do tonight, I'm really swamped." I chew on the inside of my cheek. "I can't tonight, I'm sorry."

In a fleeting second, disappointment flashes across her face. But as soon as it appeared, it's gone.

"Oh, yeah, of course," she says, and backs away, taking her arms off me. I take a step back, too, scrubbing the back of my neck with one hand while staring at the floor. "Of course."

"Sorry," I say, trying to meet her eyes, but failing. "I'm really happy for you. You deserve it, no one deserves it more than you."

She smiles, but it's weak. "Thanks," she says, then turns to go. "I… um, then I guess I'll see you tomorrow."

"Yeah."

When the door shuts behind her, I turn around and grit my teeth as I growl, "Fucking ass!"

I pound my fist on the counter, making the silverware shake and clink together. Why didn't I say yes? Why didn't I say yes to going upstairs, drinking champagne with her, probably getting drunk and sleeping with her? I have no fucking clue. I have no clue in hell why I backed out on something I've been fantasizing about for weeks. It makes no sense. It wasn't rational at all. I answered without thinking. What's wrong with me?

With any girl that came before her, I would've jumped at that chance. But with April, it's different.

I'm feeling too much. And I don't know how to handle it. This wasn't supposed to happen, especially not this fast. I'm not sure how to hold myself or what to do. I don't want her to think I blew her off because I don't care, because I do. But I can't change it now, I can't knock on her door and tell her I changed my mind.

I close up the deli and step onto the sidewalk, looking up to see her place still lit. As I walk a bit further away, she comes into view, standing in the middle of the living room wearing a big t-shirt and no pants, FaceTiming, I think. She has a glass of champagne in her free hand and a smile on her face, and as I walk away I can't stop thinking that she shouldn't have to celebrate alone.

I should be up there. But I was too much of a coward.


	3. Chapter 3

**APRIL**

I walk upstairs and flick the lights on one by one, furrowing my eyebrows to myself. My apartment is empty, like always. But tonight, I'd wanted something different.

Jackson is supposed to be here with me, drinking the cheap champagne I bought at the corner store. As I set the cool bottle on the countertop, I wonder what good reason he had for not accepting my invitation.

The hug we shared was way more than simply a friendly hug. That much was obvious. But then, he started acting so strange and jittery when I asked him to join me upstairs, like he never thought we'd get that far. Truth be told, I didn't either. But I welcomed it. It didn't seem like he felt the same.

I sigh and shake my head, trying not to let myself get too caught up in him. But it's harder than it seems. I know he's still downstairs, probably closing, mere feet away. We're in the same building, for God's sake.

Then, I get angry. Has he been leading me on? Every time I see him, he flirts with me. And I flirt back. Sometimes, I even start it. I call him almost every morning and he talks to me first thing, most of the time about nothing at all important. I think he likes hearing my voice, and I know I like hearing his. So, why was tonight's interaction so awkward?

Wouldn't coming upstairs with me be the next step? I wasn't sure where I wanted the night to go, but I was hoping for a kiss. Maybe I was being irrational in that, I don't know. Admittedly, I'm not sure how to begin a relationship this way.

My other two had been so predictable, so expected. They were both in the theater program, both played my opposing male lead. It was practically written for us.

But this one, whatever I have going with Jackson, is different. There's no script. No stage direction. No lines. I have to figure it out on my own, and he isn't following the cues I set.

Now, I'm annoyed.

I shake my head and retreat to my room, changing into a big t-shirt and a pair of comfortable underwear. I walk back to the living room and turn the corner lamp on, feeling more lonely than I should. I'm by myself all the time when I'm home, but tonight it feels like solitary confinement. I want someone here with me. I had tried, but it fell through. So, I decide to call on someone I know will always answer.

"Hi, mama!" I say, after the FaceTime ring stops and my mom's face appears on the screen. It's late, but she's an insomniac. I can see she's in the sewing room, where she goes when the house is quiet and she needs something to do.

"April!" she exclaims. "What a surprise. What's going on, sweetheart? Are you alright?"

"I'm fine," I say. "I'm great. Actually, I have some really good news."

She raises her eyebrows. "I'm ready."

I walk to the counter, pop the champagne over the sink, and laugh loudly. "I got the part in _White Christmas_!"

She gasps as the fizzy liquid spurts out of the bottle, down the neck and onto my hand. "You didn't!" she says.

"I did!" I say, resting the phone against the dish rack while I pour myself a small glass. "Cheers, mom."

"Well, cheers, honey!" she says. "I am so proud of you. Oh, my lord. I am so, so proud of you. This is amazing. This is the best thing I've ever heard. You're a star!"

"Mom," I say, rolling my eyes lightly. "Don't go crazy."

"I can go as crazy as I want," she says. "Oh, I can't wait to tell your father. And sisters! They're going to be so happy for you! Oh, baby, I'm so proud of you. You don't even know. Thank you for calling and telling me, I knew you could do it. I really did, I'm just…" Her eyes go glassy. "This is it for you, honey. You're doing it. This is your dream."

"Mom, you're gonna make me cry!" I say, smiling through my clogged throat. "I'm so happy. Thank you so much."

"You deserve everything, sweetie," she says. "You've worked so hard."

She beams for a moment, and I soak it in. For my whole life, my mom has been my biggest cheerleader. Theater wasn't something expected in my family - we're a typical, all-American group. The Kepners know sports, smarts and Jesus. So, the fact that I've always been interested in the arts wasn't totally accepted. Except by her. She's been at every single performance, dried my tears when I bombed auditions, and ran lines with me since I could read.

"Have you made any friends there yet?" she asks, changing the subject after I get lost in my thoughts.

I picture Jackson's face immediately. There's no doubt he's become my best friend in Chicago, possibly the best one I've ever had. Before tonight, we connected on a deep level I've never experienced. I know what happened earlier didn't ruin that, but it did throw a wrench in the way I feel.

"I have," I say. "One. And I'm sure I'll make more once rehearsals start."

She nods, interested. "Who's the one? What's her name?"

I clear my throat. "Um, his name is Jackson."

Something flashes across her eyes, but I can't quite read what it is. "Oh," she says, a smirk on her lips. "How'd you two meet?"

"He works at the deli downstairs," I say, and feel my face getting hot for unknown reasons.

"Is he cute?"

I suck in my cheeks. "Mom…" I groan.

"Okay, okay," she says, giggling. "Well, I'm glad you have a friend. You can tell him that, from me."

"Uh-huh," I mutter. We both know I won't.

We talk for a few more minutes, and after I hang up, it's quiet again. Turning on the TV doesn't feel right, so I finish my champagne standing in the middle of the room, looking around at everything that's become so familiar.

Joining the pictures of my family and friends from back home on my bulletin board, is a recent photo I tacked up just the other day. Smiling softly, I walk over to study it closer, tracing the shape of my head posed next to Jackson's. We took a selfie downtown, in front of the Buckingham Fountain, on a rare afternoon we both had off.

He'd made me laugh when he said he'd push me in, picking me up easily after I teased him he wouldn't. I shrieked, clung with my arms around his neck, and he set me down before we even got close to the water. It was a very hot, but very good day.

I sigh, finding my thoughts wandering back to him. I don't understand why he turned me down, but I don't think I'll wrap my head around that tonight. I shake my head, brush my teeth, and turn out the light.

Boys.

…

The next day is a Saturday. I wake up late, which I almost never get to do, and stretch out in bed with my eyes still closed. The sun is streaming in from the window and I found my way out of my shirt in the middle of the night due to the sticky air, but I don't let the heat bother me.

I reach to the nightstand and pull my phone from its charger, squinting at the screen to let my eyes adjust. I can't help it; I log onto Twitter and compose a new tweet.

 **Saturday, 10:45am- You're looking at the brand new #BettyHaynes for this year's #WhiteChristmas show! I could not be more excited to accept this role! #SoBlessed**

I exit the app and sigh happily, staring at my ceiling with my arms stretched out to either side of my body. After a moment with my eyes closed, I sit up, scratch my head, and decide to go for a walk. Outside can't be any hotter than it is in here, and some fresh air will be nice. I almost never get any free time, so I want to take advantage of a day in the city I barely know yet.

I shower and tie my long hair into a wet bun, then put on a short, flowy skirt and a camisole. Without makeup, I lock my apartment and go downstairs, only to practically run into Jackson as he comes out of the deli.

"Oh, hey," he says, bumbling a bit. "Sorry. Almost knocked you over. Didn't see you."

"It's okay," I say, feeling the sweat start on my lower back already. Luckily the camisole is light pink so the wet spot hopefully won't be too bad.

There's a quiet moment between us where we linger on each other's eyes. I go to say something, but my breath catches in my throat and he beats me to the punch.

"Where're you headed?" he asks.

I shrug. "Just on a walk," I say. "Wanna come?"

He scratches his ear and pauses, then nods. "Sure," he says.

Since we're downtown already, we head towards the lake where the wind is. Any breeze on a day like today is appreciated.

"You worked early today," I say, after a few blocks.

"Yeah," he says. "Picked up a shift. Usually don't work at all on Saturdays."

"Oh," I say. "Yeah, I noticed that."

"You did?"

I nod, glancing at him. "Last Saturday I came down to get a pop," I say. "You weren't there."

"Oh," he says. "Right."

It'd be impossible not to notice that something has changed between us. It's the elephant in the room. Our usual, lighthearted banter has been replaced with strained silences and forced answers. This isn't anything like how we normally are with each other.

My stomach twists as I worry if it's lost forever, all because of me. It would definitely be my fault. Did I jump the gun, try to move too fast, too soon? I shouldn't have invited him upstairs at all. But how was I to know? He's the one who started all the flirting. I was just going off of his behavior.

I turn my head to look at him, trying not to be caught, and bite my lower lip. His profile is stunning - he has a bit more facial hair than I'm used to seeing, a fine coating of stubble, and his eyebrows are set low. He has something on this mind, that's for sure. I have the urge to reach and smooth the creases out on his forehead, but I fight it.

"About last night," he says, clearing his throat. "I'm… uh, I'm sorry for being weird. Uh, making it weird."

I stop chewing my lip as his words sink in. I didn't think he planned on acknowledging it, and I definitely wasn't going to. Now, I don't know what to say.

"It's fine," I murmur, because what else do you say after someone apologizes? I don't think there are any other acceptable responses.

"It wasn't," he says. "I was an idiot. I…" He shrugs. "So, yeah, I'm sorry. I don't want things to be fucked up now."

I snort, shoulders bouncing once with a laugh. "They're not," I say, and he looks at me. I shake my head. "They're not fucked up."

"No?" he says, eyes brightening.

I shake my head again. "No, things are okay," I say. "Last night ended up being fine. I FaceTimed my mom. She asked about you."

"She did?" he asks. "Wait. How does she know about me in the first place?"

I smile to myself. "I told her I made a friend."

"A friend, huh?" he says.

"Yeah," I say, grinning his way.

We're quiet for a little bit, and the wind picks up. Enough to blow the flyaway hairs around by my face.

"It's kinda weird," he says. "We've only known each other for like, what? Two weeks, a little more? But, I don't know. It's weird. It feels like I've known you forever."

"I was thinking that, too!" I say, voice rising in pitch. "That's why I was kind of upset about last night. I didn't want to have ruined everything."

I didn't mean to say that out loud. I gasp to myself, wondering how he'll take it.

"You didn't ruin anything," he says. "If anything, I thought I did."

"Well, you have the right to say no," I say. "I shouldn't have asked. It was pushy."

"Nah," he says. "It wasn't pushy. I'm still so fuckin' happy for you, by the way." He smiles, beams actually. "My Pink Lady is gonna be a star."

I blush like mad. I can't help it.

"I don't know about that," I say, staring at the ground.

"Yeah, well, I do," he says. "For real. You've got everything it takes. You've lived here for two weeks and you're gonna be at the Chicago Theater for the holidays. That's so huge."

My smile feels like it might break my face. I can't keep it under control.

We keep walking, trading aimless, easy conversation like usual. Relief floods my body as I realize that nothing has changed - there was just an awkward hump that we needed to get over. And now that we're over it, things can go back to how they were.

We reach the lake, and though it's simmering outside, there aren't many people sitting on the sand. Taking advantage of the open area, we find a place in the shade and sit down, soothed by the steady sound of the flowing waves hitting the shore.

I sit with my legs crossed at the ankles, leaning back to rest my weight on one hand with the other lax between us. Jackson has his legs bent casually at the knee, his hand only centimeters from mine.

We aren't talking when it happens. But suddenly, I feel the side of his pinky touch mine, but chalk it up to something accidental. I don't think much of it until I feel the same thing again, then more of his fingers curl around mine in attempts to take my hand in his own.

With a quick-beating heart, I help him along. I turn my hand up so he can take it, and he does. Without exchanging words or even a look, he holds my hand in his and we sit on the sand in silence, watching the water.

I can barely breathe. I've held hands with people before, but it's never felt like this. This feels earth-shattering, life-changing, though it's only a simple hand in mine. I can't help but glance down where we're intertwined, fingers laced with fingers, and my heart speeds up even more.

My eyes flit to his face. He's staring at the lake wearing a satisfied expression, pleased with himself. I muster up some courage and scoot a little closer so our hips touch, and he trembles, but rests our hands on his leg.

My mouth goes dry as I try to keep my smiling at bay. I don't want to seem crazy, but I didn't expect this to happen. I wanted it to happen very badly, but I wasn't getting my hopes up because of how last night transpired. Somehow, amongst my unbridled happiness, I'm even more confused.

Our palms start to sweat. I notice just as he does, because he adjusts as subtly as he can.

"I'm, uh," I stammer, giggling nervously. "I'm a little sweaty. Sorry."

He laughs awkwardly, too. "Yeah," he says. "Me, too."

We break apart and wipe our hands on our respective clothing.

"Wanna go back?" he asks, and I nod. It's getting too hot to be outside now. "We can go get a drink at the deli. On the house."

"Yeah," I say, then stand up to leave.

As we make our way back to the sidewalk and match pace, his hand finds mine again. Our fingers twine together and we walk all the way back home, hand-in-hand.

…

On Monday, the morning of my first rehearsal, my stomach is in knots as I get ready to leave. I'm up way too early, before the sun, sitting on my window ledge and watching the earth wake up.

I'm fully dressed already - in white shorts and a light blue t-shirt. Today, we'll read through the script and do character work, I assume. I'm not sure what else will happen. But rehearsal starts at 9am and ends at 7pm, with only a thirty-minute break in between.

I'm too nervous to eat. I tried to force a granola bar, but I couldn't do it.

It's barely 7 now, and I know I shouldn't, but I call Jackson. As usual, he picks up just after the second ring, his voice slurred and bleary.

"Hi," he says.

"Hi," I say. "I'm sorry. I know it's early."

"S'cool," he murmurs, then yawns. "Morning."

"Hi," I say again. More than anything, right now I wish I was with him. I could use one of his grounding hugs.

"Y'okay?" he asks.

I sigh loudly, through my mouth. "No," I say. "Not really."

"Wh'sup?"

I crack a tiny smile at his raspy, sleepy state. "I'm scared about rehearsal today," I admit.

"Aw, that old thing?" he says. I can practically see him gesticulating when he talks. "You're gonna show up and show 'em all how amazing you are. They're gonna see. Just watch."

"But what if they don't like me?" I ask, my voice a mere peep.

He pauses for a moment, then makes a loud grunting sound as he stretches. "Who's not gonna like you?" he asks.

"I don't know," I say. "My castmates. The director. Everyone."

He makes a disbelieving sound. "Come on," he says. "Number one, the director wouldn't have hired you if he didn't like you. So, you're in good with that guy. Number two, if your castmates don't like you… fuck 'em. They're theater nerds anyway."

I laugh. "Jackson…"

"I know, I know, calm myself," he says, chuckling. "But seriously. You're you. What's not to like? It's gonna be great."

"How come you're so confident?" I say. "And I'm so… not?"

"Outside looking in," he replies. "I see you different."

I lean against the wall, tipping my head up and closing my eyes. "I hope you're right," I say.

"Always am," he says, and yawns again.

"Go back to sleep," I say. "Sweet dreams, J. Avery."

"Always, after hearing your voice," he says.

"Charmer," I say. "See you tonight."

I hang up and try to breathe. Talking to him improved my morale a little bit, but my gut is still twisting and turning. I just need to get through today. The first day is always the hardest. Once I'm there, all these first-day jitters will fade.

This is what I'm meant to do. This is my calling, my dream. And I'm here to do it.

…

The rehearsal is long, but I was right. As soon as I got there and met everyone who I'll be performing with, my nerves died down considerably. It was a comfort to know that I wasn't the only one feeling that way, either. Everyone had the same, skittish look in their eyes.

During our break, I'm sitting at a table by myself when a man comes to sit by me. I recognize him from the table read - he plays my love interest, Bob Wallace.

"Hi," I say, voice light and friendly. I didn't bring a lunch, because I was too beside myself this morning. I'm still not sure I could eat, so I've been on my phone. Checking Twitter, mostly to see if Jackson has had anything to say. So far, nothing.

"Hey, Betty," he says, sitting down.

I giggle. "April, actually," I say.

"Right, right," he says. "Of course. Matthew."

"Nice to meet you," I say, still smiling.

"Seems we should spend some time together, seeing as we're gonna be carrying this play on our backs," he says. "Hungry? I have extra."

I can't see what food he's holding up, but I shake my head anyway. "Oh, no, that's fine," I say. "Thanks, though. And yeah." I smile again, graciously this time. "But the rest of the cast is awesome. We have a really great group, I think."

"Oh, definitely," he says. "But I mean, we got cast as the leads for a reason, right?"

My eyebrow twitches, but I force my grin to stay. "If you say so," I reply.

"So, how long have you been doing theater here?" he asks. "I don't think I've seen you in anything before."

"Oh, no," I say. "You wouldn't have. I just moved here."

"Oh," he says, interest piqued. "Really? From where?"

"Ohio," I say. "I graduated from Kenyon College. Then, I came here. It's my stepping stone to Broadway."

"If you're not careful, Chicago will grab you," he says. His tone is light, but his eyes say differently. "You might get stuck."

"I'm moving along just fine," I say. "I got this part after two weeks of being here."

He makes a face like he's impressed. I feel a sort of satisfaction from that.

"Nice," he says. "Don't get used to it, though. Last thing I'd want to see is you to burn out."

"Right," I say, a bit disjointedly. "So, how long have you been in the business?"

"My whole life," he says. "I grew up on stage in the city. This show's no big deal for me. But they like my face; they can't seem to stay away from me. This isn't the first time I've played this role. But don't worry, I'll show you how it's done. I think you might be my favorite Betty yet."

"Oh," I say, laughing softly. "Well, thanks."

"Usually, Leonard doesn't go for a redhead," Matthew says, referencing our director. "But I like his choice."

"Thanks," I say again. "I hope I can do the part justice."

"I'm sure you will," he says. "I am sure you will."

Our break ends quickly, and we get back to work. The day seems to drag on forever, but by the time we're done, the sun is still beating down heavily.

I don't catch anyone's eye as I walk out of the rehearsal space. The only thing that tugs me out of my own head is when I hear my name being called.

I look up, searching for the source of the sound. Then, I see him. Coming down the sidewalk with, bag in hand, is Jackson, waving like a maniac.

"April!" he calls, waving some more.

I smile, the first real one so far. "Jackson!" I shout back.

We meet in the middle and he wraps me up in a big hug. I lock my arms around his waist, tucking my face in his neck as I breathe in his scent that's grown to be familiar - deli and very subtle cologne.

"What're you doing here?" I ask.

He holds up the bag. "Thought you might be hungry when you got out."

"Oh, god," I say, and my stomach growls loudly at the thought. "Yes. I'm starving."

"Nothing new there," he says, laughing. "Do you wanna walk to the park, or something?"

"Sure," I say, and just as we start to head in the direction of Grant Park, someone intercepts our path.

"Ah." It's Matthew, standing in the middle of the sidewalk with a backpack on one shoulder. I'm sure it's normal-sized, but his hulking figure makes it look tiny. "The boyfriend," he says.

"I - oh-," I say, but don't finish my sentence before Jackson gets there first.

"Jackson," he says, jutting out his arm. Matthew shakes his hand. "And who might you be?"

"The boyfriend, too," Matthew says. "On-stage, that is. I play Bob Wallace, Betty's man." He smiles, baring way too many teeth as he roughly shakes Jackson's hand. "Explains why you were acting so weird earlier, April," he says. "You don't need to worry. It's just acting."

I open my mouth, but barely any sound comes out. Suddenly, I notice the feeling of Jackson's arm around the small of my back tightening, and I welcome it. I feel like I need it. Matthew's form is looming over me, seemingly trying to be intimidating.

"Have a nice night," he says, and lumbers away.

"Who was that creep?" Jackson hisses, releasing me after he's gone.

"My costar," I say, shoulders shivering dramatically. I can still feel the spot around my waist where Jackson was holding me. "Thanks for covering. You didn't have to."

"Well, he was weird," Jackson says. "I thought he'd back off if I said…" He shrugs. "Guess he has a thing for you."

"I think he has a thing for everyone," I say. "And I just happen to be the lucky one who has to kiss him."

His attention flicks to me. "You have to kiss him?" he asks.

"Yeah," I say, wondering what the big fuss is. "Eventually. Bob and Betty couple up."

He grumbles something under his breath I can't quite hear, shaking his head. We don't talk again until we get to Grant Park and sit on a bench, and he hands me the white bag. Inside is the type of sandwich I always get, the King Club, with double everything.

"I'm about to inhale this," I say, giggling.

He smiles, too.

"How was your day?" I ask.

He shrugs. "Alright, nothing that exciting," he says. "Did your nerves go away?"

"Yeah," I say, chewing. "Everyone was mostly cool."

"Except for that giant serial-killer beast," Jackson mutters.

I snort. "Jackson," I say. "Come on. Maybe he just has a weird vibe, and he's a perfectly fine guy."

He shakes his head. "That's the kind of vibe you don't come back from," he says. "He practically ripped my arm out of the socket when he shook my hand. And he was looking at you…" He shudders. "I really didn't like the way he was looking at you."

"I'm a big girl," I say. "I can take care of myself."

"I'm not saying you can't," he says. "If you like him, it's cool. It's fine."

"Don't go _that_ far," I say. "I'm still creeped out. But he's no serial killer."

"Never know…" he lilts.

"Shut up!" I laugh, and push his shoulder with mine. "I can't think bad thoughts about him. I have to act interested."

"I hope you're a good actress…" he says, smirking.

"Of course I am," I say boastfully. "How do you think I got the part?"

"Cocky ass," he says, shaking his head. "Would you just finish your sandwich?"

I wiggle where I sit and hold it in both hands, still giggling. "You missed me today, admit it," I say.

"Nah," he says, lips turned down in a dramatic frown. "It was a nice, quiet day without you chatting my ear off."

"I hate you," I say, amused. "You're such a liar. You thought about me all day."

"Not once," he says.

"Uh-huh," I say. "Bullshit. Then why'd you bring this sandwich all the way here?"

"It's not even that far," he says. "It was on my way. I was headed home, thought I'd stop."

"Nope," I say. "You live in Wrigleyville. This was not on your way. You were totally going out of your way to do something special for me."

"Special?" he says. "For you? Never."

"You're always doing something special for me," I say, nudging him.

He pushes on his glasses, lips pulling up in a small smile. "Whatever," he says. "Yeah, it was weird without you loitering around today. Happy?"

"Very," I say, and take a big bite.

...

A month later, the rehearsals get longer. We're into August now, and the heat has somehow gotten more intense, too. At the end of a day that seemed never-ending, I'm dragging my feet home, seriously wondering if I'll be able to make it up the stairs.

The lights are still on in the deli, though the sign is flipped to Closed. Some days, Jackson will stop by the theater and bring me food, but other days he won't. Usually, when he's busy he doesn't get a chance to leave or close early.

I don't see him standing behind the counter, so I pass the door and fiddle with my keys, trying to find the one for the front door. But in the low light, I can't seem to get it.

"God," I whimper, flipping through them. In my fumble, they end up falling to the ground in a heap, and I find myself joining them. I rest against the building with my knees to my chest, chin turned up, whining like some sort of animal.

"April?"

I open my eyes and see Jackson standing in the doorway, ready to head home for the night.

"What are you doing?" he asks.

"Dying," I answer.

"On the dirty sidewalk?"

I nod pitifully. "Today was so hard," I say.

It was. We ran the same scenes over and over again, I sang so much that my voice is sore, and I don't remember a single moment I got to sit down. Right now might be the first time all day.

"I'm exhausted," I mutter, then my throat clogs with tears. "I wanna go to bed."

"Well, I don't think you can do that on the sidewalk," he says.

I make my way to my feet, but my knees feel wobbly. "I can't find the key," I say, bending to pick them up. "It's painted pink. I can't see it. I don't know. I just…" I sob. "I wanna go to sleep."

"Hey, hey, it's alright," he says, flipping through them like I'd been doing. "Look. Here it is." He unlocks the door and flicks the stairway light on. "Need help?"

I look at him desperately and nod, and he takes my hand and leads me up the stairs. Once I'm in my apartment, I turn the lights on and toss everything I'm carrying onto the floor.

"Will you stay for a minute?" I ask. "Sit with me?"

"Sure," he says, hands in his pockets. I sit on my bed and pat the mattress. "You want me… there?" he asks, eyebrows up.

"I feel like I'm about to fall apart," I say, voicing what I didn't even know I felt. "My whole body hurts and my mind is going crazy."

He sits down. "Sleep will help," he says.

"My shoulders are so tight," I say. "Will you rub them? If you do, I'll rub you back."

He narrows his eyes. "You don't have to do mine," he says. "But sure."

I kick my shoes off and turn to the side so he can get at my back. His hands tentatively touch my shoulders, and his thumbs dig in, which turns me into complete mush.

"That feels so good," I say, tipping my neck to one side as he continues. "Thank you so much."

"Mm-hmm," he says, still going. "You're really tight." He clears his throat. "Muscles. Your muscles are really tense."

"I know," I say. "They don't let us sit."

"Not all day?"

I shake my head.

"Damn," he says. "That sounds like cruel and unusual punishment."

He stops massaging, and I yawn. Without thinking about the fact that he's still here, only with the endpoint of my bed in mind, I strip off my shirt and my jeans so I'm left in my sports bra and underwear, which is close to what I usually sleep in.

"Oh…" he stammers, turning away as I crawl under the covers.

I pay him no mind. The only thing I can think about is shutting my eyes. I've never been this tired in my life. But suddenly, there's a pang in my chest and I find myself missing home - missing the closeness of having someone near me.

"Will you…" I murmur, rubbing my eyes. "Can you play with my hair? My mom always used to do that for me when I was going to sleep."

"Um, sure," he says.

"You don't mind?" I ask. "Is it weird? I just…" My throat clogs, like before. "I'm…" My lips tighten as I feel I'm about to cry again.

"No, it's okay," he says. "Come here. Put your head right here."

He pats his thigh, and I follow through. I rest my head and close my eyes, my cheek squishing against his leg as he weaves his fingers through my hair, combing it back from my face rhythmically, gently.

"You're a good caretaker," I mumble.

He chuckles softly. "Thanks."

His continues to pet my hair until the tension releases from my shoulders and I'm on the way to unconsciousness. Then, he carefully lifts my head from his thigh and clears his throat quietly.

"I'm gonna… I'm gonna go," he says, though I barely hear him. "I'll lock the door on my way out. Shut off the lights and stuff."

"Mmm," I say, rolling over, halfway asleep. "G'night. And, J... thanks. For all this."

"Yeah," he says. "Um, see you."

I don't even see the lights turn out before I fall into a deep, dreamless sleep.


	4. Chapter 4

**JACKSON**

Weeks pass, and the air cools in the middle of September. Not completely - a midwest summer lasts way too long - but it's better than the way July and August suffocated the city.

I don't sweat every time I walk outside. The sun starts to go down earlier. The universities nearby start their classes again, and everyone comes alive. There are more people, more activities, more buzz.

All of that holds true, but I'm more bored than ever. As time has passed, April has only gotten busier with her show. Rehearsals grow longer, more intense. When she's not rehearsing the actual show, she's rehearsing the songs. When she's not rehearsing the songs, she's in dance practice. It's a never-ending loop that I can't see the end of.

I know I shouldn't lament about it. I'm not the one who puts in countless hours of work every week - that's her. But I still miss spending time with her every day, knowing that once closing time came around, I'd see her face. Now, I'm lucky to get an interaction like that once a week.

Even on the weekends, she has things to do. She's made friends with her castmates, and says it's important for them to have organic chemistry on stage. When she told me that, I said organic chemistry is a class that a science major takes, not something she needs to worry about. She laughed and rolled her eyes, but I wasn't kidding.

I know I'm being needy. But I don't think wanting a little alone time with her is too much to ask. I can't remember the last time we hung out, just the two of us, somewhere quiet. When we had a chill, casual conversation where we could relax and not worry about time constraints or running lines.

It seems that right as we were about to turn into something more, the world flipped us on our heads. Now, she has no time to worry about a potential budding relationship. And it seems like suddenly, I have all the time in the world to worry about just that.

I didn't stop thinking about the night in her apartment for a long time. I still remember the way her hair felt in my fingers, soft and smooth. I still remember the nonchalant manner she got undressed in front of me, and how I fought to keep my eyes averted. That's still an anomaly to me. I know people do crazy things when they're dead tired, but I did not see that coming. I had no idea she was that comfortable around me.

Soon after that, her schedule got hectic. We don't get quiet, intimate moments like that anymore. I miss them; I miss her.

So, on a rainy Saturday morning when I'm not scheduled to work, I wake up and grab my phone immediately. Instead of being woken up with April's ringtone, I wake up on my own. I really miss hearing her voice first thing, talking about nothing in particular, just trading conversation.

I scroll through Twitter, feeling unsatisfied. I come across a tweet April posted - it's a picture of her and her new friends out to brunch earlier this morning. It has a ton of hashtags and happy emojis, but I scroll past without dropping a like.

I shake my head and toss my phone away. The facade she puts on for social media is totally fake; I know how stressed she really is. She has perpetual dark circles under her eyes from lack of sleep, she's lost a noticeable amount of weight, and she always has a new complaint about someone in the cast. They're not a bunch of perfect best friends. I know that better than anyone.

But of course, she has to make it seem that way. I know it's a lie, yet I can't help feeling jealous.

The tweet was from two hours ago, and I assume she's back home now. I reach for my phone and shoot her a text, knowing that no matter how peeved I am, I'll still try and see her.

 **SENT, 10:48am- hey. U around?**

 **RECEIVED, 10:51am- Hey. Yeah! Call me.**

I grin at the screen and press her contact, happy when she answers almost immediately.

"Hey, what's going on?" I say.

"Morning, sleepyhead," she says, and my chest feels warm hearing her say that. "Whatcha up to?"

"Laying in bed," I say. "How 'bout you?"

"Looking at new blocking sheets," she says. "I was on the call sheet for today, but got taken off. They didn't think they'd get to my scene." She sounds relieved, but there's something undercutting her voice, too. I can't place it over the phone. "Wanna come over? I have banana bread. Without nuts, just the way you like it."

I smile to myself. "That sounds awesome," I say. "And yeah, I'd really like to see you, but…" I pause. "Let's go do something. Go to a museum, get lunch, something to get your mind off _White Christmas_ for like, a day."

She reciprocates my pause, making a thoughtful sound as she does. "Um, okay," she says. "Sure. I'll put myself together."

"Awesome."

I get ready, feeling excited for the day ahead. Not even the rain can quell how much I'm looking forward to seeing her and spending time doing something that doesn't involve theater. Of course, I support her in every way, but there comes a point where it's simply too much. And she's been beyond that point for a while now.

I ring the bell to her apartment and she lets me up. The door is open once I climb the stairs, and I peek my head in to find her sitting in the middle of the floor wearing a towel on her hair and a purple robe, fresh from a shower.

"Hey," I say, knocking on the doorframe. "Am I too early?"

She looks up from the papers in front of her, but only for a second. "Oh, no," she says. "I'm sorry, I got distracted. I just have to finish this, okay? I have to write down these notes before I forget them." She gestures towards the couch. "Go ahead, sit. I won't be long. The banana bread is on the counter."

I help myself to a slice, sitting on the couch while watching her furiously jot down words I can't read as she's hunched on the floor.

"What are you-"

"I can't talk while…" She looks at me helplessly. "While I'm working, okay? It'll just be quicker if I…" She looks back at the paper. "It won't take me long."

"Alright, alright," I say.

But it does 'take her long.' I've long since finished my banana bread and I'm pretty sure her hair must be dry inside the towel by the time I get fed up of waiting. But she still stays, muttering to herself, bent over the script.

"I can't do that," she mutters. "He's just going to… no, I can't." She scratches something out furiously, gnawing on the inside of her cheek. "I'll have to talk with… no."

"April," I say, voice firm. "This will be here when we get back. Can we just go?"

She looks up for the first time since I got here, a strange look on her face. "No, we can't," she says. "I don't think… I can't go out today. I'm sorry for making you come all the way here, but I have to get this done. The way this is set up, I'm just not comfortable with doing it this way and I have to make changes. And after I make the changes, I have to get good at the song Leonard gave me to learn for the second act. I'm having a lot of trouble hitting the high G, and it's gonna take some practice. I'll probably meet with my voice coach later. Maybe you and I can do something tomorrow."

I stare at her for a long moment. "No," I say, standing to put the plate that held my banana bread on the coffee table. "I think you need to take a break."

I pick up the papers from where they're strewn, and she stands up and looks at me indignantly.

"Hey, stop," she says, as I set them on the kitchen counter. "That's important work. I need those. I need to get all this straight in my head."

"Today?" I say. "You work on this stuff every day. You know I support you, but you need to step away once in a while. It's making you crazy, Pinky."

"It's not making me crazy," she says, glowering. "You sound like my mother. If you'd just let me work, I'd be a lot less 'crazy.' I just need to get this under control."

"You have plenty of time," I say. "But right now, we need to get out of this house."

"Why are you being so pushy with me?" she says.

"I'm trying to help you," I say. "You've barely seen the light of day in weeks."

"That's not true," she says, tightening the tie on her robe. "This is my job. I spend time outside of it, too."

"Yeah, with the same people from inside it."

"Is that what this is about?" she says. "That you're jealous?"

"No," I say, even though that's not completely true. "I'm thinking about your wellbeing. I don't want what happened-"

"You don't know anything about what happened," she says. "So, please don't bring it up. I am fine. I want to be great, I want this show to be great. And I'm doing what I need to do to make it that way!"

As her voice raises, so do my eyebrows. "You don't need to yell," I say. "Or push me away, because you know I'm right."

She opens her mouth to refute me, but her lower lip trembles instead. Her eyes widen and grow glassy, and a flush appears on her cheeks. Suddenly, I feel like an ass.

"Hey, I didn't mean to make you to cry, I'm-"

She cuts me off by falling into my arms, clinging to my back with all her might as the sobs start. I tentatively reciprocate the hug, patting her back slowly and holding tighter as the moments pass.

"It's okay," I say, trying to soothe her. "Come on, let's go to the couch. It's okay."

We make it to the couch and sit down. She leans against my shoulder and continues to cry, and I rub her opposite arm with a steady hand.

"I'm sorry," I say, gently.

"It's not you," she wails, chest heaving. "It's this. It's all this."

I nod, cheek moving against the top of her head. "You need a break," I murmur.

"But how am I supposed to take one when everything isn't perfect?" she whimpers. "Time is going so fast. Everything is out of control. It's like I get one thing right, then something else goes wrong." She lets out a long, loud sob. "And I never see you anymore. I'm so sorry. I didn't want this to happen. I mean, I did, but not like this."

"It's okay," I say.

"It's not," she says, sitting up. She holds her chest, eyes big and round, as the tears continue to roll down her cheeks. She breathes heavier, faster, leaning forward to double over.

"Are you okay?" I ask, trying not to sound alarmed.

"I think I'm gonna die," she says, still grabbing at her chest. "I can't breathe. I need water. I'm gonna fail this show and my family's gonna hate me, you're gonna be disappointed in me, I'm gonna crash and burn and be a total failure, I can't do this. I need water!"

I hurry to the sink, where I fill a big glass and bring it over to her. With badly shaking hands, she takes it and tries to drink, but the water splashes on her lap more than it gets in her mouth.

"I think you're having a panic attack," I say. "Try to breathe."

"I am," she insists, her whole body trembling now. "But I think I'm dying. There's so many things wrong. I should've never accepted this role, I shouldn't have auditioned, my mom was right. I'm gonna have a breakdown again, I'm gonna have a breakdown!"

"No, you're not," I say, rubbing her back. "I got you. You're fine, I'm right here."

"I'm not fine," she whispers, holding the glass between her hands as the water moves around. "I can't breathe. I'm having a heart attack."

"Look at me," I say, and she turns her head with great difficulty. "And breathe. There's nothing to be scared of, I'm right here. This is temporary, you just gotta breathe."

I inhale with her, and she lets it out with an extended sob. "Matthew touched me," she wails, once her entire exhale is out.

My body goes cold. "What?" I snap, looking at her seriously.

Instead of answering, she collapses onto my chest as her body goes limp and she continues to cry. I stare ahead at the wall with one hand on the back of her head, smoothing over her hair. I rock her side to side, feeling her hammering heart inside her chest, and wait until she catches her breath to ask again.

"What happened?" I ask, and she sits up, moving tendrils of hair out of her face.

"I took care of it," she says, voice still waterlogged. "It was - it was, we were supposed to kiss. And right there, in front of everyone, he groped my ass. Like he wanted it to be a part of the scene. I…" She hiccups. "I flipped out on him, Leonard did, too. He apologized, but…" She breaks down again. "It was in front of everyone! He violated me, in front of everyone. And he's my scene partner, I still have to work with him."

She rests her head on my chest again and cries against me, one hand gripping the side of my neck.

"I'll kill him," I say, holding her tight and secure. "Next time I see him, I'm not kidding. No one touches you without your permission, that's so sick and wrong." I grit my teeth. "I knew there was something fucked about that guy. I fucking knew it. Jesus, April, I am so sorry that happened to you."

"I know it won't happen again," she says quietly. "But I can still remember the way it felt. I can't get it out of my head when I look at him."

I squeeze her shoulders. "He's not going to be able to forget it when I cave in his skull, either."

"You can't cave his skull in," she says. "The show still has to happen. Everyone's expectations are so high."

It sounds like she could be joking, but I know she's not.

We're quiet for what seems like forever. She breathes a little easier now that she told me about Matthew, and I wonder how long that's been on her mind. I should've checked in on her sooner. Should've asked how things were going. But instead, I only got jealous and standoffish about her castmates. That was selfish.

I shake my head softly at myself, then picture his face. His slippery grin, flashing eyes. I want to vomit when I think about him grabbing at April.

I'll make sure he gets his.

"It's all weighing on me," she says.

"What is?" I ask, still unable to get my mind off Matthew and what he did.

"What everyone thinks," she says. "There's so much pressure. I can't do it, Jackson. I have to be perfect for them, all the time. And if I'm not there, if I'm not perfect, I have to be working to make it. I'm so tired. I'm just so tired."

"I know you are," I say, stroking her back. "But you know what? You never have to be anything but yourself. Not around me, at least."

She starts to cry again, but differently this time. Instead of long, drawn-out wails, she quietly sniffles and twitches against me, reaching to wipe her nose and eyes every few seconds.

"You're the only one who thinks that," she says. "And I've been ignoring you. I haven't been… I've been trying to please them. I'm sorry, Jackson."

"You don't have to apologize to me," I say.

We're quiet for a long while, then she speaks up again.

"What happened to me last time…" she begins, and without specification I know she's referencing her breakdown. She's alluded to it before, but never gone into detail. "It can't happen again. I can't go through that again." She whimpers softly. "I'm not strong enough."

I don't say anything. I don't want her to feel pressured to continue, only if she feels comfortable.

"I was in the hospital," she says. "I wasn't eating. Wasn't sleeping. Just going, going, going. Until one day I just… stopped. I broke. I broke myself." She inhales shakily. "I was hallucinating. It was the scariest time of my life, and I felt so alone. I locked myself in my dorm room for days. And after I got out of the hospital, my mom made me come home." She shakes her head. "I can't do that again."

"I can't fix things," I say. "But I can help you. And I want to help you."

She sits up and looks into my eyes; hers are bloodshot and tired. "I wanted to tell you," she says. "I just didn't know how before. I didn't want you to think I was crazy."

I reach and tuck a small piece of hair behind her ear. "You're far from crazy," I say.

She holds my wrist and keeps my hand on her face, leaning her cheek against my palm.

"You can tell me stuff, you know," I say. "If you feel like you're getting bad. I'm here. I'm not going anywhere."

She blinks, her long eyelashes glued together with tears. "Yeah?" she peeps. "Not ever?"

I shake my head. "You got me right here," I say, offering a smile. She returns it.

Later, we make it to her bed. She puts on a pair of pajamas - soft pink pants decorated with sheep with a camisole, and pulls herself close to my chest. I wrap my arms around her as she tucks her face into my neck, eyelashes ghosting against my skin, and listen to her fall asleep. She goes quickly, deeply, like she hasn't had a restful night in ages. And my guess is that she probably hasn't.

So, I stay. Awake with my body cocooned around hers, I keep her safe while she lets herself do what she hasn't for a while. Just be.

…

"Jackson."

I open my eyes slowly, blinking up into April's face from where my head rests on her thigh. We're on her bed - she's leaning against the wall and I'm using her lap as a pillow, tired from an especially long shift. She'd been going over notes from her director before I closed my eyes, but now all she has in her hand is a shortbread cookie shaped like a pumpkin. It's now October.

"Hmm?"

She looks down at me and giggles softly. "Oh, sorry," she says. "I didn't know you were asleep."

"I'm up now," I say.

She traces my eyebrow with her free pointer finger, studying my face as she does so, and nibbles on the edge of the cookie.

"Bite," I say, and she lowers it to my mouth.

"Okay, that was a huge bite," she says, narrowing her eyes. "That was a chomp."

I snicker. "Why did you say my name before?"

She sighs, relaxing deeper against the wall as she rests her hand on my chest. Solidifying it there, I overlap it with my own and stroke her bony knuckles.

"I was just thinking," she says, taking two more bites of the cookie until it disappears. "What happened to your dad? You never talk about him. But you always talk about your mom. And I remember you once said…"

"Yeah," I cut in, and we lock eyes.

"If it's a sore subject, you don't have to…" she trails off.

"I don't care," I say. "He walked out on us when I was like, four. I can't remember much. I don't think he was around much while he was around, if you know what I mean."

"Yeah."

"So… I don't know."

"Well, I'm sorry," she says, still tracing my eyebrow and moving to the lines on my forehead.

"Nah," I say. "I never knew him. There's nothing to miss."

"I guess," she says, shrugging one shoulder. "But you deserve a good dad. You're a good person."

"My mom did a hell of a job on her own," I say.

April smiles. "That's true."

"She'd love you," I say, rolling my eyes at the thought. "Yeah, she'd be all over you."

"I'm sure I'd feel the same," she says, still grinning softly.

"She's a lot," I say. "But hey. She's my mom."

"Of course," April says.

I look up at her, eyes searching her face, until she looks to me. "What made you ask?" I say.

"I don't know," she says. "It just crossed my mind. I can't imagine that anyone, much less your own father, would leave you. You. It just…" She sighs, at a loss. "It blows my mind. You're wonderful. I don't see how someone could leave you."

"You're inflating my ego," I say, voice low.

"Whatever," she says. "Don't put on that cocky persona. You know I know you."

"I know," I say, then reach to touch her chin. "Yeah, I know."

…

On the afternoon of December 1st, April is a mess. I'm over at her place as she gets ready to leave, shoving everything she'll need for the first performance tonight into an oversized duffel bag.

"You're sure you don't need help getting this to the theater?" I ask.

"Yeah," she says, throwing a curling iron from the bathroom in the bag's direction. It misses and bounces off the couch, onto the floor. I pick it up and put it where she meant it to go. "The show's not for hours yet. You'll just be waiting around, and you're not even dressed. Not even showered! No, no way. You have to get ready. I'll be fine."

"But will you, though?" I ask, leaning on the kitchen counter.

"I will," she says, stepping out of the bathroom. Her hair is in rollers and she's wearing a pink zip-up hoodie, jeans low on her hips. I can see a strip of her orange underwear showing just above the waist, which makes me smile to myself.

"You're not freaking out?" I ask, a smile in my voice. "Not at all?"

"Shut up," she says. "Of course I'm freaking out. But once I get there… get settled… I'll be fine."

In mid-October, I cornered Matthew in the alley a block away from the theater and socked him in the face for what he did. It needed no explanation, he was perfectly aware. Luckily, it's all healed for tonight. He told April and the rest of the cast that he got mugged on the Blue Line, and they're none the wiser.

I chose to keep it to myself, too. Vigilante justice is best kept a secret.

"You're gonna be amazing tonight," I say. "I can't wait to see."

She wouldn't let me come to the handful of dress rehearsals, because she said she wanted me to be surprised. I went along with it, accepting that it would only raise my excitement higher for opening night.

"I wanna see you in that front row," she says, pulling up her pants only to have them sag again a few moments later. "This face," she says, walking over and cupping my cheeks in her hands. "I need to see it."

"You will," I say, laughing as she goes to grab a different bra than the one she's wearing to toss it in the bag. "And I'll have cue cards on me if you forget your lines."

She scoffs and laughs, saying "Okay, good." She surveys her apartment. "I think I got everything," she says.

"Coat, shoes," I say.

"Right, right," she says, giggling at herself.

"Are you gonna take the train with those curlers in?" I ask, raising my eyebrows.

"Are you crazy?" she says. "Look outside."

I glance out the window to see a thick blanket of snow falling, the perfect mood for the show tonight.

"I'm taking an Uber," she says. "And it'll be here in two minutes. Quick, come hug me."

I shake my head and cross the small room, enveloping her even smaller body into my arms and squeezing tight. "Break a leg," I say. "I'll see you after."

"Yes, you will," she says. "Lock it up when you go. Your clothes are on the bed!"

After she disappears out the door, I watch her scurry down the sidewalk and climb into a car that pulls up outside. As it drives away, I smile to myself and walk to the bathroom, turning on the shower to get a head start on preparing for later.

Over the past few months, April and I have gotten incredibly close. No doubt about it, she's my best friend and I'm hers. Sometimes, we spend platonic nights at each other's places, and Mark always gives me shit when she leaves. She better learned how to balance her rehearsal schedule, and got a good hold on controlling her life. Ever since her panic attack in September, things have been on the up and up.

There are moments, though, between us, where something more is dying to happen. It just hasn't felt like the right moment yet because our schedules are still so different, our lives still so hectic. I don't want to force anything.

Though, nothing with her feels forced. When it comes to testing out a romantic relationship with the girl who's become my best friend, I tend to make up a lot of excuses.

After I get out of the shower and a few hours pass, I put on the clothes for tonight: dress slacks and a white button-up shirt. April ironed them this morning in her tizzy, insisting that she do so instead of me so there wouldn't be any errant creases. I button myself up in the mirror, but then shake my head and unbutton it. I need a closer shave. I want to look perfect for her tonight.

I lean over the bathroom sink and use one of her girly razors to trim my beard as best I can, at least making it something other than the unruly mess it had been moments ago. When I'm happy with how it looks, I dry off my face and put the shirt back on, now impressed with the reflection looking back.

On the way to the theater, I stop and pick up a bouquet I know she'll love and carry it with me. My stomach is in knots as I find my way to the front row, so I can't imagine how she must be feeling backstage.

 **SENT, 7:43pm- youre gonna be amazing up there, pink lady. I cant wait to see what u can do :)**

I press send, though I know she probably won't see it. I'm surprised when my phone buzzes in my pocket with a message from her.

 **RECEIVED, 7:47pm- I am sooooooooo nervous you wouldnt believe. But in a good way. It's gonna be great. I'm so glad you're here. Thank you for everything. You were right, you are the one and only.**

I smile at my phone's screen like an idiot. A real idiot.

 **SENT, 7:50pm- knock 'em dead**

And she does. I've never seen someone perform like she does. I always knew she was good - she wouldn't have gotten the part if she wasn't. But she's more than good, she does way more than hold her own up there. She owns the space, commands attention, and has a palpable stage presence. When she sings, her voice - that tiny voice that whispers to me at night as I'm about to fall asleep - fills up the entire auditorium.

I am in awe of her.

When the show ends, I'm the first to stand. The house lights come up and we make eye contact as I applaud her with enthusiasm, a giant smile on my face. She mouths something to me before retreating backstage with her costars: _thank you_.

When she comes out afterwards, she pushes her way through the throngs of people and flies into my arms. I spin her around, laughing with my face in her neck, and hold her tight.

"You're fucking amazing," I say, setting her down.

She's breathless, swiping her hair out of her eyes.

"These are for you," I say, handing over the bouquet. "Congratulations on an awesome performance."

"Thank you," she says, eyes glistening as she takes the flowers and smells them. "They're beautiful. And you… thank you."

"Of course," I say, then bend to kiss her cheek - long and sweet. I pull away and we lock eyes; her lips are parted slightly and her eyes are sparkling. I need to make something of this night. "Let me take you out," I suggest.

"Okay," she says, taking my hand subtly. "Where?"

"The Florentine," I say, and we walk out of the theater with our hands linked together.

As we sit across from each other at the fancy Italian restaurant, April wears a permanent blush on her cheeks.

"So, you were really, actually impressed?" she asks, sipping white wine.

"More than that," I say. "I always knew you had something. But, Pink, someone's gonna see you and snatch you up. You're gonna make it big. You're so much bigger than this."

"Than the Chicago Theater?" she asks, eyes wide.

"Than this city," I say. "Just watch."

"Well," she says. "I'm not ready to leave yet. So, they better wait."

"True," I say. "The city isn't done with you, either."

She smiles demurely, setting her goblet down. "It means a lot to me that you came," she says.

"Of course," I say. "I wouldn't miss it for the world. You're my best friend. What kind of a person would I be if I didn't fulfill my role as your biggest fan?"

She giggles, averting my eyes. There's something different about her tonight - something innately magnetic. She's glowing.

The food we eat is expensive and worth it, and I cover the check despite her protests.

"No," I say, putting down my card. "This is a congratulatory dinner. I took you out. That's how this works."

"At least let me leave the tip," she says, voice hushed.

I press one gentle finger against her lips. "No," I say, grinning.

"Well, thank you," she says, eyeing the card.

"Stop looking at it," I say. "This is for you. A gift. For _you_."

"Okay," she says, trying to accept it. "You're too good to me."

"Nothing but the best for my best girl," I say.

Her blush grows.

We take a taxi back to her place, and after she gets out and steps onto the sidewalk, she leans down and makes eye contact.

"Come up?" she asks, batting her long eyelashes.

I nod, paying the taxi fare and sliding out behind her. As the car drives away, we linger on the sidewalk for a long moment, just drinking in the presence of one another.

"I better… find the keys," she says, laughing breathily.

"Right," I say.

She unlocks the front door and I follow her up the stairs, entering the apartment in the same state I left it earlier. I tidied up her frenzied mess, but it's home like always.

"Tonight was…" she begins, putting the flowers in a vase with water before leaning against the kitchen counter, the small of her back pressed against it. "Magic."

"It was," I say, taking a few steps closer to her.

I watch her swallow. Her eyes are on my lips, unable to move anywhere else.

She's wearing a low-cut black dress with a tight bodice and flowing skirt that reaches her knees. It's strapless, and her shoulders are on full display as she slips out of her coat and deposits it on the floor.

I know what's on her mind. She would never have dropped her coat on the floor if it wasn't.

"You're magic," I say, trapping her against the counter with one hand on either side of her hips.

She takes in a short, quick inhale as my face nears hers. I smell the wine on her breath, the perfume on her neck, the sweet vanilla in her hair. Suddenly, I feel drunk on the mere presence of her, much headier than the glass of wine I had with dinner.

I skim my hands down her shoulders and the peach fuzz across her arms stands on end. She shudders, pulling her bottom lip into her mouth, and blinks heavily.

Now, I'm the one staring at her mouth. Taking one hand away from her arm, I use it to cup her cheek and get closer, the tip of my nose brushing hers, the air between us mixing. As my lips ghost over hers, I hear the tiniest sound come from her throat.

When we finally kiss, I take it slow. She does, too. We're unhurried, drinking in this delicious moment that's been waiting and begging to happen for so long.

Her lips move fluidly against mine, and I match her pace. I taste her - wine and cinnamon - and find myself wanting to consume her.

When we pull apart, she looks both stunned and stunning.

"Took you long enough," she breathes, then smiles.

"Better late than never," I say, and kiss her again.

I hold the sides of her neck with both hands, closing my eyes as I kiss her slowly. Her hands find their way to my waist, circling around to rest over my hips, pulling at the fabric of my shirt where it's tucked into my pants.

She's not subtle with what she wants, and I'm glad. I want tonight to end there, too.

We make it to her bed after kicking off our shoes, and things slow down again after a brief, rushed moment. The lights are low, new shades drawn, her pupils dilated. The only things quick in this room are our heartbeats, hammering inside our chests. I can feel hers when she presses her body against me, pushing my back against the wall so she can sit facing me on my lap.

Unhurriedly, she unbuttons my shirt. As her fingers move deftly, I harden in my pants and see the bulge it creates, demanding to be noticed between us. When she gets to the last button, she untucks my shirt and strips it from my arms, then runs the heel of her hand over my erection.

"Shit…" I hiss, tipping my head back.

Her hands skim across my pecs, over my white undershirt, as her hips start to rhythmically grind against my lap. I wind my arms around her back and pull her zipper down, realizing about halfway that she isn't wearing a bra.

"Take it off," she urges, lifting her arms above her head.

I do as she tells me. The dress comes off and gets thrown to the floor, and she's on top of me in just a pair of black, lacy underwear.

We spend a moment staring at each other. She doesn't try and cover her chest, and I don't try and hide the fact that I'm staring. I lift one hand and, gauging her eyes for permission, use it to cup her breast. The weight is warm and soft, and when I squeeze, she gasps and moans at the same time.

"I'm sorry," she breathes, and my hand jolts away immediately. "I've never…"

"We don't have to…" I say, backtracking. I don't want to do anything she isn't comfortable with. I would never push her. The fact that she's a virgin has never left my mind.

She doesn't answer with words. Instead, she tips her torso closer and takes my face in her hands, kissing me with an open mouth. I wrap my arms around her bare back, trailing my fingertips up her spine, and she curves it towards me.

"You're fucking gorgeous," I say, skimming my hands around to the front to cup her breasts again. I rub her nipples with my thumbs until they harden further, and she moans into my mouth.

"Mmm…" she hums, hips still moving.

"You like that?" I breathe, continuing.

"Yeah," she whines, and I move my mouth to her neck. I suck on her pulse point and she trembles, sighing softly as I graze my teeth over her skin and pull it into my mouth. "No hickey," she whispers. "Performances. No hickeys."

"Right," I say, then smirk. "At least where people can see."

"What do you-"

Before she can finish, I push her gently to lie on her back and cover her body with mine. I open my mouth and suck on her breast, the soft, smooth skin above her nipple, pulling it between my teeth just like I'd done with her neck. Except here, I can leave marks.

"Mm, Jackson," she moans, back arching.

I pull my mouth away with a popping sound and see I've left the beginnings of a welt behind, which is exactly what I wanted. She trails over it with her fingertips, and as we keep eye contact, I lick her nipple slowly and trail one hand down her belly to rest between her legs, over her damp panties.

"I had a nickname in college," I say, slinking lower.

She watches me, breath hitching.

"Wanna know what it was?"

She swallows and nods, running her top teeth over her lower lip.

"Pussy champ," I say, tracing the lace across the waistband of her panties.

"Oh…" she whimpers.

"Want me to show you how I got it?" I ask, voice smooth as silk.

She nods - unsure at first, then more confidently. "I'm a… I've never…" she stammers.

"I know," I say. "This won't hurt. In just a few minutes, you're gonna feel amazing. You'll feel things you never knew you could."

She shoots me a look. "I've had an orgasm before," she tells me.

"Not like this," I say, and slide her underwear down her pale, smooth legs.

I part her thighs when she's bare before me, and she watches my every move. With my hands on the soft, inner skin of her legs, I lick my lips and center my eyes on her core, what's awaiting me.

When I spit on it, it surprises her. She flinches, gasping a bit, but her hips gyrate to meet my lips when I finally touch her. The saliva isn't needed for lubrication - she's done plenty of that herself - but I find it hot. And as she moans and writhes under me, I know she does, too.

I can't understand anything she's saying if she's trying to say words. All I hear, as my tongue delves inside her body, is a series of animalistic cries and moans. I've reduced her to a primal state, which is something I knew I could do.

I'm good at going down on girls, having gotten to the point where it didn't affect me. But, watching her come undone from what my mouth is capable of, I can't say that anymore. My dick is rock-hard, and she's the hottest thing I've ever seen. In my life.

"Oh, Jackson," she moans. "Jackson, Jackson, Jackson, oh god, oh god. Oh, my _god_!"

"Yeah, baby?" I say, and she bends her knees to widen her legs further. I suck on two of my fingers and push them inside her, and partnered with my working mouth, her eyes roll back and her hips lift from the mattress.

When she comes, her hips buck and jerk against my face and I don't stop until she's spent, empty, twitching erratically. I kiss her lower belly and she presses a hand to her heart, panting, as she tries to catch her breath.

"Shit," she whispers.

"I told you," I say.

She grapples for my shoulders, holding on tight as she kisses me, hard and sloppy. "I want you in me," she says. "Do you have a condom?"

Fuck. I can clearly picture them on my bedside table at home, the box unopened from my lasting dry spell.

"No," I say. "Shit. Fuck."

She skims her hands down my chest, landing at the waist of my pants which she unbuttons. "Can't you pull out?" she asks, unzipping. "You can come on my stomach, I don't care."

"Seriously?" I ask.

"Yeah," she says, yanking at my pants. "I just… I need… I really want… I'm so wet, Jackson, I need you. Please, god, I need you."

I don't waste any more time. With a rough kiss, I strip my pants and boxers and we're both naked, her eyes burning between my legs.

"You ready?" I ask. "You're cool with this? I know you're a-"

"Please," she says, widening her thighs to welcome me. "Just maybe, go slow."

I kiss her chin. "Tell me if it hurts," I say. "I'll stop. Just… just tell me."

She nods, and I push the tip in, already loving the way she feels. As I'm halfway, she spreads her legs further and adjusts her hips, rubbing her thumbs in circles on my shoulders. When I'm all the way, she loses her breath as her eyelashes flutter, lips parting to moan.

"Good?" I ask.

"Really good," she breathes. "Move."

I pull halfway out and sink inside her again, scooping my hips at an upward angle. She holds onto the front of my neck with one hand, keening as I meld our bodies together, and slowly begins to match my rhythm.

I know I'll come first. My dry spell has been long, and she feels like nothing I've experienced before. Her body is one-of-a-kind, along with the look in her eyes, the way she touches me, the way she forces me to be present. She's everything - I'm all in with her.

The muscles in my groin tighten as I get closer and closer to release. I keep going for as long as I can, holding one of her thighs as her back scoots up the mattress, and finally pull out in one swift motion and jerk myself off the rest of the way. It only takes a few pumps before the clearish-white liquid spurts out and lands on her belly, on the sunken expanse under her ribs, into her bellybutton.

She breathes heavily as she watches it, watches me. After I'm finished, I stay there on my knees, head thrown back with my eyes on the ceiling, panting, hand still wrapped around my dick. I take a moment for myself, reveling in how amazing that was, then tuck myself back between her legs so I can get her off with my mouth for a second time.

As she's still coming down, I walk to the bathroom completely naked and come back with a wet washcloth. With her eyes on me, I clean off her stomach and toss the rag into the dirty clothes basket, falling into her outstretched arms after it's disposed of.

We lie there naked in the dark, limbs tangled together, heartbeats syncing. She kisses my chest before she falls asleep, arms wrapped around my waist, and sighs softly.

I press my lips to her forehead. We don't need to say it aloud to know. We're falling in love.


	5. Chapter 5

**APRIL**

I am so in love with him.

It didn't hit me before, not like this. I've always heard that having sex with someone creates a connection, a near-physical link, but never knew what to make of that. Now, I do.

Snow is falling heavily outside; I see it coming down in the gap between the curtains. Chicago is cold, but the man beside me is warm beyond belief. I'm on my side with his body wrapped around my back, one arm under my neck and the other across my chest, one hand tucked between my breasts. His breath hits the back of my head steadily as he's still deeply asleep, and I smile to myself.

His stomach presses against the small of my back as he breathes, and I glide my fingertips up and down his arm just to touch him. To remind myself that I'm here with him, to remind myself that what we did last night was real. It was very real indeed.

As gently as I can, I roll over to face him. He stays asleep, stirring just slightly as he purses his lips, and I wind my arm around his waist to pull him close. My eyes shine as I look at his face, open and unbothered, and I can't help but kiss his chin softly.

I'm obsessed with him. Suddenly, he's all I can think about. He's right here, right in front of me, yet I want more.

I caress his face with the back of my knuckles, curious to see what will wake him. Responding to my touch, his eyelashes flutter and his forehead crinkles slightly, a low sound emanating from the back of his throat.

I push myself up and kiss his slack lips tentatively, slowly. He rolls onto his back and I perch with my chin on his chest, blinking and waiting for him to open his eyes.

When he does, it's only to slits. I smile and skim one hand over his bare chest, and he tightens the arm around me as he stretches and closes his eyes again.

"Wake up…" I sing.

I hold the side of his face and kiss his jaw, getting goosebumps as he drags his fingernails over my naked back. When I lift my head, he's blinking slowly, a ghost of a smile on his lips.

"Hi," I say, sounding giddy.

He looks at me, his eyes piercing in the soft light. "Morning," he says.

"Sleep good?" I ask.

He nods. "Always do when you're next to me."

"This is the first time I've been naked next to you," I whisper.

"Even better," he says, eyes threatening to close again.

As I watch his face, I feel a thousand things. All good, all so romantic, so intimate. I've never felt this strongly for another person in my life. Looking at him makes my heart feel like it's going to explode.

"Last night was…" My voice trails off before I can finish.

"Mm-hmm," he says.

I smile, pausing for a moment. "Was that really your nickname in college?" I ask. "Or is that just something you say?"

He raises his eyebrows. "Nah," he says. "It really was. Pussy champ. But I proved it to you, didn't I?"

If I concentrate, I can still feel his tongue between my thighs, his fingers following, and the earth-shattering orgasm he gave me.

"You did," I admit.

But the fact makes my stomach twist, knowing he's apparently been sexual with so many girls while I've only had one partner - him. Seemingly reading my thoughts, though, he clears his throat and speaks.

"Girls in college were nothing compared to you," he says, tracing the shell of my ear.

I find myself blushing; I can't help it.

"Nothing."

"Stop," I say, tucking myself into the crook of his arm and resting my palm in the middle of his chest. His heart thumps through his skin, and I relish the feeling of his body alive so close to mine. So present, so visceral.

He kisses my hairline, pressing his lips to my skin repeatedly. "Want me to do it again?"

My stomach jumps at the thought alone. I wasn't sure how to ask, and I'm also not sure how to agree. Being sexual is very new to me - with my old boyfriends, we'd never gotten all that far. Last night, for the first time, my orgasms occurred under another person's control. It was a brand-new, life-altering feeling.

"I…I..." I stammer.

"Don't be afraid to say yes," he says, unwinding his body from mine. "Just tell me. I want to make you feel good, baby girl."

I bite my lower lip hard. I don't know why, but that pet name sends me into a tailspin. He hovers over me, his big, strong body over my small one, and I want to hand everything over. I want him to know I'm completely his.

"Yeah," I say, pushing the covers back so I'm exposed.

"Good," he says, straightening my bent knees. "Lay back. I got you."

I rest my head on the pillow and he parts my thighs; I feel cool air between my legs as he brushes his nose over my core, kissing my hip bones after. I let my eyes graze over his flawless skin, then center my attention on a tattoo on his right shoulder blade I've never noticed before.

"You have a tattoo," I breathe, abdomen tensing as he licks me.

"Mm-hmm," he affirms.

"What's it…" I lose my breath as he parts my folds with his fingers, delving deeper with his tongue. "Mmm, oh… what is it?"

"A compass rose," he says. "Got it when I left for college, so I could always find my way home."

I smile breathily. "That's beautiful," I say.

"Not as beautiful as you," he responds, finding my clit with his tongue and pulling it between his lips rhythmically, gently, at a pace that drives me crazy. My breath comes heavier and I start to sweat as I grapple for his shoulders. "You're almost there," he murmurs. "Come for me, baby girl."

I'm not one to disobey. With his head clamped between my thighs, his tongue continues working until my hips fall back to the mattress and I stop writhing and moaning. After it's over, he crawls up my body and pulls my hands away from my face so he can kiss me.

"Is that what it tastes like?" I ask, holding his jaw and kissing him again.

"That's what you taste like, yes," he says, licking his lips.

I copy his motion and lick mine. "I want to taste you," I say, blinking slowly.

His eyes widen and he clears his throat. "Have you ever given a blowjob before?" he asks.

My face heats up with a blush. I sit up, pulling the sheet over my lap, and shake my head slightly as I find it hard to meet his eyes. "Handjob," I mutter, picking at a thread on the comforter. "Kind of."

"You don't have to if you don't want to," he says.

I feel self-conscious. "Well, if you don't want me to…"

"Oh, no," he says. "It's not that. It's definitely not that. I just don't want you to feel, I don't know, like you have to."

I meet his eyes to find he was already looking at me. "I don't feel like that," I say. "I want to. I want to make you feel good like you make me feel good. You just… you might have to teach me."

His eyes glint as they graze over my shoulders, down to my bare chest. I know he's looking, but I don't have the urge to cover myself.

"I can do that," he says.

A twinge of nervous excitement floods through me, all the way to the tips of my fingers.

"Um…" I say. "Okay. How do you want me?"

As he adjusts, I see he almost already has a full erection and feel a weight lifted from my shoulders that I won't have to get him hard. He's done it without me.

"I'll sit here," he says, maneuvering to the edge of the bed as I watch. "You should come over in front of me, on your knees."

I get up and walk to the side of the bed, arms wrapped around my stomach, chewing on my lower lip.

"Are you sure about this, Pinky?" he asks.

"I want to," I say, lowering to my knees. "You can stop asking. You just have to tell me how to do it."

"Okay," he says, leaning back slightly. "Have you ever touched a dick before?"

I glance at him quickly. "Over the pants," I say.

He nods. "Wrap your hand around the base, the shaft," he says. I do as he says, gentle but not too gentle. As I look at his face for validation, he seems strained. I take that as a good sign. "The head is the most sensitive part," he says. "If you kiss it, that-"

I don't let him finish. I lean forward and press a slow, wet kiss to the tip, where a bead of pre-come shines. I look up at him through my eyelashes and he nods, one hand lowering to rest on the back of my head.

"Shit, just like that," he breathes. "Keep going. You can pump with your hand while you suck on it, you don't-you don't have to deepthroat it. Just… treat it like an ice cream cone. Lick the whole thing."

I take his words to heart. I plant one hand on his inner thigh and run my tongue along the length of him, stopping once I reach his groin. I kiss the smattering of hair above the base, and watch the muscles in his abs tighten. I go slow, take my time, interested in learning what excites him and what I should do more of.

"Do you like…" I say, voice small. My hand slips between his legs, fingertips ghosting over his balls. "This?"

"Fuck," he hisses, letting his head fall back as he spreads his knees wider.

Surprising him, I tuck my face where my hand is and suck one between my lips, running my tongue over it.

"Oh shit, April. Gentle, gentle, gentle," he says, voice hurried. "Fuck. Jesus, baby."

I move back to his dick, pumping with purpose and sucking on the tip while swirling my tongue around it. I don't let it get too far in my mouth because I'm scared of gagging, but I do what I can with what I'm confident in. I know how to eat an ice cream cone, so I guess I know how to suck a dick.

He grabs a fistful of my hair as I hollow out my cheeks and cup his balls in one hand, looking at him with wide eyes. He meets my gaze as his chest heaves, licking his lips as he watches me work.

"I'm gonna fuckin' come," he mutters. "You don't have to swallow if you don't want to… just-just aim it somewhere, because I'm gonna… fuck!"

I'm too nervous to swallow on the first try; I've heard from Kimmie that it feels weird and can be gross, and those thoughts won't leave my mind as the moment passes in slow motion. So, I take Jackson's penis out of my mouth and he comes all over my chest.

I gasp as I watch it come out so close to me, spurting onto my sternum and dripping slowly onto my breasts and between them. When the flow stops and he begins to soften, he flops back on the bed in a breathless heap.

"Jesus fucking Christ," he murmurs, lying for only a moment before sitting up and pulling me with him. "Get over here," he says. "God, you're so sexy. You are so fuckin' sexy."

"The bed is gonna get all messy!" I squeal, and he plants his hands on my chest and rubs in what he did, massaging my breasts as he does.

"I'll clean it," he says, kissing me with his hands full.

"Oh, you will," I say, feeling his thumbs rub my nipples until they harden.

"Yes, my baby," he says, smiling as he kisses my neck, dangerously close to my very messy chest. "I will."

"So, when I suck you off, I'm _your_ baby?" I ask, playfully.

He lifts his head to look me straight in the eyes, and responds without hesitation. "You'll always be my baby," he says.

…

That night after my second show, I invite Jackson out to dinner with the cast. I would rather be at home just the two of us, but I'm the lead female and can't say no to gatherings like this. I figure it'll be better if he's here with me, mostly because the last thing I want right now is to be someplace without him.

We walk into the restaurant as a group, my arm linked through his. I'm smiling up at him, beaming actually, and he kisses me softly while the director takes care of our reservation.

"You were amazing tonight," he murmurs, lips moving against my forehead.

"Thank you," I say, stroking his hand.

"Alright guys, our table is over here in the atrium," Leonard says, waving our big group along.

When we get to the table, Jackson pulls my chair out for me and I sit while smiling at him. He sits down to my left, and after a moment passes, Matthew sits to my right.

Jackson notices immediately. "Oh, no," he says, pushing his chair out. "Switch me, babe."

I shoot him a thankful look and we trade seats so he's next to Matthew instead of me. I take his hand under the table and run my thumb over his knuckles, silently telling him how much I appreciate what he did.

Our table is loud and conversational, but I'm too caught up in Jackson to notice. We've been friends for months, best friends even, but now I think of him differently. His presence takes up the room, so magnetic, and all I want is to be alone with him. We spend the duration of dinner talking just the two of us, disappearing into our own private bubble.

When it's time to leave, he winds an arm around my waist and subtly keeps me close as Matthew passes. Everyone else has already dispersed.

"You don't have to piss on her every time I walk by," Matthew spits, surprising us both.

I physically recoil, still affected by what he did to me. I'll never feel comfortable around him again - not like I ever was. But there's no chance of redemption. His hostile tone doesn't help matters, either.

The pads of Jackson's fingers dig into my waist and I shrink closer to him. I'm not one to depend on someone else for safety - especially a man - not usually, at least. But this feels more dangerous; I know what Matthew is capable of. If he's capable of groping me in front of a handful of people, who knows what he'd do if we were ever caught alone? I can't bear to think of it. So, in this instance, I let myself falter to Jackson for protection.

"Fuck off," Jackson growls, shaking his head. "You don't have the right to talk to her, not off-stage."

"I wasn't talking to her," Matthew says. "I was talking to you."

"Just leave it alone," I mutter, but my voice gets lost.

Jackson's eyes burn into my costar's, and if looks could kill, Matthew would be long gone.

"I'm not gonna teach you the same lesson again," Jackson says. "I don't know why you're acting all brave right now, but I'm telling you that you don't wanna try it again. I'll ruin that pretty face for the rest of the performance run."

"Try that, and I won't keep my mouth shut this time," Matthew says. "I'll call my lawyer and you'll land your black ass in jail. Where you belong."

My whole body goes cold, then completely hot. "Whoa," I say, unraveling myself from Jackson's grip as I take a step closer to Matthew. "No way. You can't talk to him like that!"

Without much thought, I wind my arm back and sock him in the face. Square in the nose, and his chin juts upwards with the force from my fist. When his head comes back level, he touches his nose to check for blood, and finds none. But still, he comes for me and shoves my shoulders so hard that I stumble backwards and land on my ass on the sidewalk.

"You motherfucker," Jackson growls, and I stay on the ground. I can't seem to move, I just cover my ears with my hands and watch everything happen before me in slow motion.

Jackson quickly covers the distance between he and Matthew and winds one my costar's arms around his back, pinning it up between his shoulder blades as he forces him against the nearest brick wall.

"Say whatever the fuck you want about me," he says. "Racist pig. But don't you dare ever lay hands on my girlfriend. Do you fucking hear me?"

Matthew doesn't respond, just grunts. Jackson forces his arm higher, making him yell out in pain.

"I said, do you fucking hear me?"

"Yes! Jesus Christ!" Matthew wails.

But Jackson doesn't let him go. "I have half a mind to get you fired," he says. "But I know…" He pushes the arm higher, and Matthew's face pinches in extreme pain. "That you won't try it again. Because I'll kill you next time. I'll fucking murder you."

He frees Matthew's arm and lets him turn around, then knees him right between the legs. As Matthew doubles over in shock, Jackson's closed fist collides with his eye and he has yet another body part to hold.

"Makeup department can cover that," Jackson spits. "Go home. Go home to the alley with the trash cans. Where you belong."

Jackson turns away, eyes burning and skin flushed, then faces me where I still sit crumpled on the sidewalk.

"Come on, baby," he says, extending one hand to grip mine and guide my shoulder with the other. "Come on. I got you. Let's go."

"What if he calls the police?" I ask, worried and hushed as we walk away. I feel safe now, sheltered by Jackson's arms, but can't help but be paranoid over what Matthew might do now that the threat of Jackson's fist in his face is gone.

"He won't," Jackson assures me, rubbing my upper arm as we head towards the train. "He's a pussy. He's all fucking talk. He doesn't have a lawyer. And even if he does, everything we did was in self-defense. You don't have to worry, babe. He's not going to bother you again."

"Okay," I say, weakly.

"I could do a lot worse than what I did," he says surely. "And he knows that. I made sure he knew that."

"Okay," I say again, and let out a rattled sigh. "I'm sorry he said… what he said."

He shakes his head. "That's not why I hurt him."

"I know," I say. "But it's why I did."

"You don't have to worry about sticking up for me," Jackson says.

"But I do," I say. "I stick up for you, you stick up for me. That's how a relationship works. And we're in one, right?" I pause. "You called me your girlfriend."

"You _are_ my girlfriend," he says, then looks at me. "Right?"

"I like that," I say, finding a smile. "If you're my boyfriend."

"Of course I am," he says.

My expression changes back to serious. "I won't let people say racist shit like that about you."

"I'm not gonna say I'm used to it…" he says. "But you have to pick your battles."

"And I picked that one," I say. "It's bad enough he's a predator, he's a racist, too. He can't keep thinking he can get away with that stuff."

"He definitely doesn't think that anymore," Jackson says. "But you can't go fighting everyone who says shit like that, okay?"

"Why?" I ask. "It's wrong."

"Because you'd be fighting half this city," he says, soberly.

We share a poignant moment, trading glances with steady eyes. In his expression, I can read that he's lived a life as a man of color that I will never know. Experienced strife and prejudice that I can listen to, sympathize with, but will never be able to empathize with. I will never be able to fully wrap my head around his struggle, because my privilege prevents it. I have to accept that fact.

"I won't try and be your savior," I say, blinking and nodding, realizing. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to start something. I just couldn't handle hearing…"

"I know," he says, jaw setting. He kisses my forehead after shaking his head a bit, and we get to the platform. "But let me take care of that kind of stuff, okay?"

I nod, watching him tap his Ventra card and following suit. "Okay," I say, sitting down.

The train arrives, blowing Jackson's tie and my hair back as it rumbles to a stop. We get into a mostly-empty car, and he strokes my knuckles as we sit down.

"I try and stay out of trouble," he says. "That's how I was taught. Don't attract attention, it's never a good thing. Bad attention, you know what I mean." He shakes his laugh, and a chuckle escapes. "But you," he says, turning towards me and taking my chin in his thumb and first finger. "Seem to attract it wherever you go."

"It's the red hair," I whisper.

"Devil child," he says, then kisses me slow.

We share a moment drinking in the presence of one another, staring into each other's eyes. Then, as he strokes my cheekbone with his thumb, Jackson's lips part and he says what I already knew.

"I love you," he says, and presses his lips to mine like it's the first time.

When he pulls away, I'm breathless. But I collect myself enough to say, "I love you, too."

…

On the day of the final show, my family comes to the city. There's a thick blanket of snow on the ground as I watch them walk down the sidewalk, red hair flaming, chatting among themselves though I can't hear them from two floors up.

But I meet them at the door, bombarded with the voices I love and know so well. Standing out in the cold are my mom, dad, Libby, Kimmie and Alice, wrapped in thick, puffy, Michelin-man looking winter coats that could be from nowhere else but Ohio.

"Duckie!" everyone choruses, and envelops me in a huge group hug.

I lose track of who's kissing me, and the smile on my face is near-debilitating. I let them love me, though, and soak it up.

"Come on, let's get out of the cold," I say, ushering them upstairs. "It's not very big in here. We're gonna be kinda crammed."

"Don't worry," Mom says, leading the way. "We have a hotel room for tonight, we don't plan on barging into your space. We just had to see how you've been living for the past few months!"

I grin to myself, getting to the top of the stairs. "Well, here it is," I say, extending my arm. "It's small. But I've got the kitchen, living room, and my bedroom kind of over there, attached. Bathroom is around the corner, along with the little laundry room."

"In-facility laundry is nice," Libby says, exploring.

Dad surveys the area with his arms crossed, nodding with approval.

"You like it, dad?" I ask, walking to him.

"It's very nice for you," he says, then plants a kiss on my forehead. "You doin' well?"

"I really am," I say.

He holds my jaw in one hand and nods subtly. "That's what I like to hear," he says.

"It's beautiful, honey," Mom says. "Really and truly. I'm so happy for you. You have a little home! It's precious. It's perfect."

Pride blooms in my chest. "Thanks, mom," I say.

"Uh, what are these?" Alice asks, voice high and curious.

I look in her direction to see that she's staring at a pair of Jackson's black boxers that must have fallen from the dirty clothes hamper, peeking out from under my dresser.

"Oh, god," I say, scurrying over. "I - um, those… don't worry about…"

I nudge them under the dresser with my foot and glance to my mom and dad, who luckily aren't paying attention anymore.

"And these?" Libby says, suggestively.

I look to her, then. Sneakily, she's holding our box of condoms in one hand and wagging it around with a playful smile on her face.

"Put those down!" I hiss, crossing the room to knock them out of her hand. They fall to the ground and my sisters crack up laughing while my face turns red, and our parents notice the hubbub.

"What's all the ruckus?" Mom asks, turning around with raised eyebrows.

I kick the condom box under my bed.

"April has something to tell you…" Kimmie sings.

I elbow her in the gut.

"I was already _planning_ on telling you," I insist, eyes wide. "I was. So, don't think that I was trying to keep a secret or anything." I clear my throat, eyes flitting between my mom and dad. "I… um, I'm seeing someone. I have a boyfriend, and he's coming to the show tonight."

There's a moment of pause where my hands grow clammy and my ears ring, but my mother soon breaks it.

"That's lovely, honey," she says. "Is it the Jackson boy you always talk about?"

My blush tells her everything she needs to know.

"It is!" Alice exclaims. "It so is, look at her face!"

"You guys," I say, pressing my fingers to my burning cheeks. "Stop."

" _And_ you guys are having-" Libby says, but I cut her off with an intense stare.

"Having…?" Mom asks, curiously. "Having what?"

"Dinner after," I say, smiling innocently. "I thought we could all go to dinner after the show."

"That sounds lovely," Mom says. "We'd love to meet him. Wouldn't we, Joe?"

"If you like the boy, we'll do our best," he agrees.

Alice giggles. "I thought Kimmie was supposed to be the boy-crazy one," she says.

"Shut up," I mumble, rolling my eyes lightly. "Shut up."

Later that night, I'm headed to the theater for a later call time than usual. My family told me they'd meet me here, and Jackson said the same. But, being the prompt and punctual person he is, I have a feeling he's already there waiting.

And I'm right. When the car pulls up, I see him standing out front in the cold, hands shoved in his pockets, shoulders hunched by his ears.

"What are you doing out here?" I ask, stepping out of the car while pulling my winter coat tight around me. "It's freezing!"

He smiles when he sees me, untucking his hands. "Waiting for you," he says.

"There's a building right there," I say, gesturing towards it.

"I know," he says, watching me as I approach him.

"Were you afraid my family would be in there?" I ask, eyes glinting.

He scoffs. "What? No. No way." He scoffs again. "Anyway, I'd see them coming a mile away with all that red hair."

I wind my arms around his waist and smile at him, blinking slowly. He holds my jaw in both hands and returns my gaze, then dips his head to rub the tip of his nose against mine.

"Cold nose," I whisper.

"Warm heart," he replies.

"Are you nervous?" I ask. "To meet them?"

"Nah," he says, but doesn't meet my eyes. He amends his answer seconds later. "Yeah," he admits.

"You don't have to be," I say, messing with something on the back of his coat. "They'll love you. They're all excited to meet you. Although…"

"What?"

I snort. "One of my sisters found our condoms earlier," I say, hushed.

"Jesus Christ…" he says, looking worried.

"It was fine, it was fine," I say. "Mom and Dad didn't see. I mean, I'm sure they kind of assume that we are… you know? Kimmie definitely is, with whoever she's seeing now, and she's younger than me. But saying it outright, talking about it? A big no-no."

"Totally agree," he says.

"Wow, look at this place, all lit up!"

My attention is drawn to the street, where my family is exiting a van on the curb. Their faces are brightened by the light from the Chicago marquee, and they all look amazed.

"Your name! Duckie, your name is up there!" Alice gasps.

"I know," I say, turning around while keeping Jackson's hand. "Isn't it awesome? I freaked out when I saw that."

They all snap pictures like crazy, getting photo evidence to brag about back home.

"So, is this the young man we're lucky enough to meet?" Mom asks, the first to break away from the photo frenzy.

I squeeze his hand, gone sweaty in my grip. "Yes," I say, beaming. "This is Jackson, my boyfriend. Jackson, this is my mom, Karen."

I free his hand so he can shake hers, and he wipes his palm on his coat subtly before he does. "It's nice to meet you, ma'am," he says.

"Oh, don't bother with the formalities," she says. "No 'ma'am or 'Mrs. Kepner.' You call me Karen."

He smiles, that dazzling, knock-you-off-your-feet smile. "Okay, Karen," he says. "It's nice to meet you."

"And this is my husband, Joe," Mom says, ushering my dad over. "Joe, this is Jackson. April's boyfriend."

My dad gives him the once-over, and my stomach jolts with nerves. He's a man of few words, but his approval means a lot to me. It always has. My mom wears her emotions on her sleeve, and I can already tell she'll take a liking to Jackson. My dad is so much harder to read and get to know.

"Nice to meet you, son," he says, shaking Jackson's hand firmly. "You been lookin' out for my little girl in this godforsaken city?"

He throws in a small smile at the end, which is a great sign.

"As best I can, yeah," Jackson says, and I notice the small tremor in his voice. "But trouble seems to follow her. Not much I can do about that."

My dad chuckles. Actually chuckles. "I know what you mean," he says.

"Is this him?" Alice asks, and my three sisters walk over to join us.

"Yeah," I say, taking Jackson's arm again. "Jackson, these are my sisters Libby, Kimmie and Alice. Libby is the oldest, then me, Kimmie, then Alice."

"The baby!" she laughs.

"And guys, this is Jackson," I say, squeezing his bicep softly. "My boyfriend."

Kimmie blatantly checks him out, eyes traveling up and down his body.

" _My_ boyfriend," I say, clearing my throat with emphasis. "Don't act like idiots around him, I'm begging you."

Libby rolls her eyes. "Have some more faith in us, Duck," she says. "I'm really happy to meet you, Jackson. I hope my sister hasn't been too hard on you."

"Oh, no," he says, smiling as he shakes his head.

"Then just wait," Kimmie grumbles.

"Shut up!" I say, eyebrows furrowing.

"Okay, okay, enough," Dad says. "Let's get inside. It's cold as hell out here."

For my final show, emotions course through my body. I retreat into my head for the scenes with Matthew, floating somewhere far away while I have to be on stage with him. But for everything else, I'm perfectly present. I hit all the right notes, all my cues, and elicit the reactions from the audience I'm supposed to. I feel like, with this ending moment, the last puzzle piece fell into place and clicked. This is how a performance is supposed to feel.

I have everyone who loves me in the audience, watching me, proud of me. I can practically feel it exuding when I meet them in the lobby, mobbed by a giant group hug akin to the one I was met with at my front door.

"You were amazing, honey," Mom says, dabbing her eyes.

"I'm proud of you, sis," Dad says, giving me a tight hug.

"You're seriously so famous," Alice says, eyes wide. "So famous. You're gonna be like… you're gonna be like Kristen Chenoweth or Idina Menzel or something!"

"Thanks, Allie," I say, giving her a hug and a kiss on the head.

They don't stop congratulating and praising me for a long time, all with different things to say. They're so caught up in it still, unable to believe I've taken such a huge step. This is the biggest thing anyone in our family has ever done.

"You're gonna go far," Libby says, quietly after the hype has died down. "You have what it takes, Duckie."

I give her a long, meaningful hug. "Thank you," I say.

After my family finishes, I make eye contact with Jackson who's standing a small distance away. I slide between my sisters and walk to him, feeling his lips on my forehead as we hug.

"Was your last show everything you hoped it would be?" he asks.

I look up at his face and say, "More."

We go out to dinner with my family, and everyone gets along even better than I expected. Throughout the whole thing, I couldn't stop looking around at everyone I love, conversing and laughing, brought together for me. My heart was so full, I thought it might explode with happiness.

Now, Jackson and I are back in the apartment, kicking off our snowy shoes in the front entryway. He helps me out of my coat and hangs it on the hook by the door, then sheds his own.

"I told you that you didn't have to be nervous," I say, walking over to him in my tights. "They loved you."

"I can still hear all their voices in my head," he says, chuckling.

"Oh, yeah," I say. "I should've warned you. They never stop talking."

We both laugh then, and he kisses me soft and slow before pulling away to look into my eyes. "Congratulations on an awesome run," he says. "I got you something."

"You did?" I ask. "You didn't have to. Jackson… you really do too much for me. You didn't have to get me a gift, you've done enough."

"Shhh," he says, then reaches inside his coat pocket to pull out a long box. "Just open it, baby."

I shoot him a look as he hands the box over, then inhale deeply before cracking open the lid. Inside, there's a dainty silver chain resting on a dark blue cushion, a pendant in the middle in the shape of the letter 'J.'

I gasp when I see it. "J for Jackson?" I ask, smiling.

"Well, yeah," he says, fumbling a bit. "I thought you… I don't know. I just thought you could wear it, so you don't forget me when you get big."

I lift the necklace from the box, watching it glint in the light as it rests on my fingertips. I stare at it for a long time, then switch my gaze to his eyes. "I could never forget you," I say, swiping my thumb over the pretty 'J.' "But I love this. Put it on for me?"

I spin around and hold my hair, enjoying the gentle, cool weight of the pendant against my collarbones. He turns me back around, admires the way it looks, and gives me a kiss.

"You're beautiful," he murmurs, threading his fingers through my hair. "And I am so proud of you."

That night, we end up in bed as usual. He's naked, and I'm bare of anything besides the tiny silver necklace. As Jackson makes my body his own, I stay conscious of its fragile weight on my chest, near my heart, where it will always stay.

…

After Christmas passes and we're into the new year, Jackson is preparing to take a mock LSAT exam, which is taking so much out of him. Now, I know how he felt with my obsessing over the show, because he's getting to be the same way about his test.

"Babe," I say, lying on his bed as the winter wind whips outside.

He's been studying for hours on end, not even breaking to eat lunch with me and Mark. While he worked, I went grocery shopping for both him and myself, cleaned his room, and read an entire play. Now, I'm tired of his attention being elsewhere.

"Baby," I say, trying for a second time to get his attention.

But that doesn't work, either. I roll onto my stomach to look at him, frowning in his direction.

"Jackson," I say, a little louder.

His eyes flit up from the study book. "Yeah," he says, then looks back down. "What's up, babe."

"You've been studying all day," I say, keeping my voice low.

"I know," he says. "The exam is this week."

"I know…" I say. "But your brain needs a break. Remember when you told me that, when I was getting all crazy about my show?"

"This is different," he says.

"How?" I ask.

He looks at me briefly. "It just is," he insists.

"Can you just take a five-minute break to kiss me?" I ask, tipping my head to the side. "Please?"

He presses his palm in the middle of the pages, then leans forward and kisses me quickly. Pulling back before I've even opened my eyes, he concentrates on the book again.

"That was not five minutes," I grumble.

"Babe, I'm sorry," he says. "But you knew I was gonna be studying today. I told you that."

I lean against the wall, legs crossed in front of me. "You're gonna do great," I say. "You've been studying nonstop for weeks."

"There's always more to learn," he says. "And I need to get faster."

I pause for a moment, forehead creasing. "Are you nervous about it?" I ask.

He chews on the inside of his cheek for a moment, then shakes his head. "No," he says. "I'm fine. It's just a test."

I search his face, knowing he's not telling the truth. "It's fine to be nervous," I say.

"Well, I'm not," he says.

"You don't have to pretend you're not just because you think you shouldn't be," I tell him.

"Can you stop putting words in my mouth, April?" he snaps, making me recoil. "I'm not nervous. I just really need to do this, and right now you're making it impossible."

"Fine," I snap back, standing up from his bed. "I'll go home, then."

"Talk to you later," he says, eyes still on the book.

"Yeah, sure," I mutter, collecting my things.

Two days later, I still have lasting annoyance with Jackson for how he snapped at me when I was just trying to help. We haven't talked on the phone, barely texted, and I'm trying to get my mind off the fact that his test is occurring right now while I'm out casually shopping in the snow.

But I can't. He's all I think about, even as I try my hardest not to. I go home, having bought nothing, and try and call him while I boil water for tea. I know his test was over at noon, and it's past 2 now.

He doesn't pick up, so I try him again. Nothing.

I shoot him a text.

 **SENT, 2:03pm- Hey, are you around? How did the test go?**

It goes unopened, unread, for more than an hour.

 **SENT, 3:28PM- Jackson? Are you there?**

Still nothing. In a huff, I put on my winter coat and boots and head out into the elements, getting on the train towards his place. When I get there and knock on the door, Mark answers instead of my usual familiar face.

"Hey, April," he says. "Come in. Did he call you?"

"No," I say, stomping the show off my shoes. "I tried calling and texting, but he didn't answer. What's going on?"

Mark shakes his head. "He came back from the test, wouldn't say a word. I asked how it went, he ignored the hell out of me and disappeared into his room. I'm glad you're here - I was seriously gonna call you if you didn't show up soon."

"Oh, no," I say, shedding my coat and hanging it up. "I'll go see what happened."

"Good luck," he says.

I ascend the stairs in my socks, walking gently down the hall towards Jackson's room once I get to the top. I knock softly on the door, but get no response.

"Baby?" I call. "Jackson?"

I don't hear his voice. So, I turn the knob and open the door to find his room completely dark - shades drawn so no daylight can come in.

"What's going on?" I ask.

I see the shape of his body on his bed, lying on his side, faced towards the wall. I step over dirty clothes, books and shoes on his floor to get to him, then sit on the edge of the bed.

"Jackson, are you okay?" I ask, reaching to touch his side.

In the still silence of the room, I hear one thing. The sound of sniffles and labored breathing, and realize he's crying.

"Baby…" I say, voice growing quieter and more soothing. I curl up on the bed next to him, spooning his big body from behind, and trail my fingertips over his arm. "It's okay," I whisper, pressing my forehead between his shoulder blades and weaving my foot through his ankles. "It's gonna be okay. I'm right here."


	6. Chapter 6

**JACKSON**

April strokes my arm as she spoons me from behind, enveloping my body with hers. In this moment, I feel incredibly small and the act of her cocooning me only perpetuates it.

But she makes me feel safe, protected. I don't do anything to fight her nurture.

I wipe my cheeks and try to stop crying - I never wanted her to see me like this. I hadn't expected her to come over so quickly and catch me mid-breakdown, and I can't help but feel embarrassed and ashamed. Men aren't supposed to cry, and I'm usually the strong one between us. Right now, I'm anything but.

I stare at the wall, eyes aching, as she drags her fingernails down my arm softly. I feel a gentle kiss pressed to my shoulder blade, and the weight of her forehead in the middle of my back.

"Do you wanna talk about it?" she whispers, moving her hand from my arm to wrap around my waist. "You know, you can tell me anything."

I part my lips in hopes to spill everything whirling around in my brain. But instead, silence follows. I can't say any of it out loud, it's all too much. Too heavy, too soon.

I close my mouth again and shut my eyes, letting out a deep, long sigh. She rubs her hand in circles on my stomach, slipping beneath my shirt benignly. It's obvious she's not trying to start anything; sex isn't on either of our minds.

Comfort is, though. And comfort is something she's good at. She's soothing in the way she doesn't say anything, how she's simply present, and that's enough.

"Do you want to sleep?" she asks, much later.

We've been lying in this bed for the better part of the day. It dawns on me that it's dark outside, and probably past evening. My stomach hasn't growled with hunger, though, and I don't feel the need to go to the bathroom. Time has grown stagnant, like I'm living in a bubble.

"Maybe," I mutter. "I don't know."

"Want me to grab your pajamas?"

My jeans are rough and uncomfortable, so I nod. She rolls off the bed and I miss her body heat immediately, so I roll over to gravitate towards the spot she just vacated. She comes back with a pair of flannel pajama pants and a soft t-shirt in hand, and I rid myself of my street clothes and let her help me into those.

I'm not incapacitated, but having her take care of me feels good. Knowing I can lean on her in a time like this reassures me that I'm not as alone as I feel, but it doesn't stop my chest from aching in the way it still is.

I know what happened has to come out eventually, but I don't have the strength right now. Right now, all I have the energy for is sleep, and even that won't come.

Moments after she crawls into bed next to me wearing an old t-shirt and striped underwear, April's breathing changes as she drifts off. I roll onto my side to look at her - her pink, parted lips, dusty freckles, long eyelashes, the perfect slope of her nose - and wish I could be in the same state of serenity.

But my brain won't shut off. In attempts to calm myself, I lift her arm gently and fold myself against her, wrapping an arm around her torso as hers habitually tightens around my shoulders. She turns her hips so her body faces mine at an angle, and I breathe in the scent of her neck.

"I love you," I murmur, thumb moving in circles above the waistband of her underwear.

"Mm," she grunts softly, mostly all the way gone - having heard my voice but probably not what I've said. Or maybe, she thought she responded accordingly. Either way, I smile weakly and rest my cheek against her heartbeat, hoping it'll lull me to sleep.

The sound centers me, but I stay awake all night.

When April wakes up, I feel her shift beside me as I'm staring at the wall. She makes a small sound in the back of her throat as her breathing lightens, stretching her body subtly by curling it around mine.

She runs her hands over my arm, kissing my head lazily where it's still lain on her chest. She's warm and smells like sleep, and all I want to do is wrap myself in her and fall asleep myself. I'm exhausted - but it won't happen. It didn't all night, and it won't now.

"Hi, baby," she rasps, hugging me closer.

She strokes my head, fingertips ghosting over the shell of my ear, and rubs the side of my neck. I sigh, closing my eyes for a moment, and tighten my fingers that lie on her hip.

"Did you sleep?" she asks.

I shake my head and hear a small sigh escape her.

"I don't deserve it," I say, referencing the rest I didn't get. My voice is weak; it's the first time I've spoken in a while. "And I don't deserve you."

She tenses. "What?" she says. "What are you talking about?"

I run my thumb repeatedly over her hip bone, through the thin material of her underwear. They're low-rise, pink and black, with a tiny bow.

"You're doing so well for yourself," I say, airing thoughts that were plaguing me all night. "And I'm just here, working at my family's deli. And that's where I'll always be. I'm just pulling you down, you shouldn't be with me. I'm a failure."

She sits up abruptly, forcing my head to the pillow instead of tucked against her.

"Stop it, baby," she says, eyes wounded and wide. "You're going to law school. What about that makes you a failure?"

I can't meet her eyes; I'm too ashamed. "Unlikely," I grumble, rolling onto my back.

"What do you mean, unlikely?" she says, persistent. "Jackson, if you did bad on the mock-"

"I didn't just do bad," I say. "I bombed. I fuckin' bombed it."

"Jackson, I'm…"

"I'm already a disappointment to my family, my mom," I say, recalling the vile way her voice sounded on the phone when I called to tell her.

I knew she'd find out anyway, so I saw no point in trying to keep the results from her. They were automatic, and she might as well hear it from me. That had been my thought process, at least. Now, I regret telling her so soon after the fact. It had only rubbed salt in the open wound.

"So, I know I'll be a disappointment to you, too. And I can't handle that."

Lines appear on her forehead; she's troubled. "What did your mom say?" she asks.

I chew the inside of my cheek. "She said that I'll be a disappointment by becoming a lawyer since I clearly won't be a good one," I mumble, hating the way the words taste as they come out. "She said it's a waste to even go to law school, a waste to spend all that money on it if I can't even do well on a practice exam."

The air sits stagnant after I've said the words. I know they had to come out, but I don't like April knowing what hurt me. My mom has been known to say some nasty things when she gets mad or feels strongly, and I know I can't defend her, but I feel like I have to. Even though what she said was awful, I still feel protective and I don't know why.

When I look at April, her jaw is set firmly. "She's wrong," she says, unwavering. "And what she said was horrible. That's not true, you have to know that's not true." She touches my shoulder. "Baby. Look at me."

I blink heavily and turn my head slightly to look into her eyes. Hers are practically burning with intensity and passion; she truly believes what she's saying.

"It was called a 'practice' test for a reason. Just because you failed on your first try doesn't mean you'll be a bad lawyer. It means you're human. You're allowed to make mistakes, you're allowed to struggle, Jackson."

I can't tear my eyes away from her. No one has ever told me that.

"Not everything is going to come easily to you," she says. "But you're tough enough to get through that. You have talent, and you're so smart. You're the smartest person I know. Of course, the LSAT is hard. If it were easy, everyone would be a lawyer. If it were easy, I'd be one. And we both know that isn't happening."

She smiles, letting me know she's joking. I work on reciprocating.

"It was a mock exam," she continues. "It wasn't the real thing. And you know what? Even if it was, you could retake it." She holds my face in one hand. "But you won't, when it comes to that. Because I'm gonna help you. You can't be afraid to accept help from people, okay?"

"You have auditions," I say. "I know those start soon. You don't have to waste time helping me, I can try again on my own," I say.

"No time with you is time wasted," she says. "I want to help. Let me."

She leans forward and kisses me, and I feel alive for the first time since hearing what my mom said.

"You're not stuck, you're not pulling me down," April says. "Since I've lived here, since I've known you, all you've done is lift me up. And that's all you could ever do." She kisses me again. "So, let me lift you. I love you. And you're going to succeed, you're gonna live a beautiful life."

I smile, eyes shining into hers. "One with you, I hope," I say, surprised by my own sentiment.

"Of course," she says, moving to sit on my stomach, leaned forward so the tips of our noses touch. "Me and you, in a big house. Because you're gonna be a bigshot money-making lawyer and I'll be on stage, of course."

"In a big house with a ton of kids," I say, trailing my fingers down her back. I can't believe I'm saying this - these kinds of thoughts never so much as crossed my mind when I was with other girls. But with her, all I can see is our future. Our future, together.

"A couple kids," she says, kissing me gently while smiling. "We have busy careers. We can't have a kid farm."

"Okay, then. Three," I say, tracing the waistband of her underwear.

"Three's a good number," she says. "But not too many years between them. I want them to be close."

"Of course they'll be close," I say. "They'll be good kids. With you as their mom, they'll be the best kids."

"You flatter me," she says, then the look on her face softens. "You'll be the best dad. You're already king of the dad jokes. And you're so supportive."

"But I'll always love you the most," I say, tucking her hair behind her ears.

"You say that now…" she trails off, gently taking off my glasses so she can kiss me more passionately, setting her full weight down on my body. "Quickie," she says. "Then, let's get out of the house and go for a walk."

The breeze is chilly as we walk by the lake later that day, and I keep one arm around April so she stays warm. Because even though she's bundled up in a long coat, scarf, and earmuffs, I don't want my baby to freeze.

"Let's take pictures," she says, beaming up at me with a wind-flushed face and shiny eyes.

"Alright," I say.

She poses for a selfie and I stand behind her, looping my arms around to rest on her chest plate as I press my cheek to the side of her head. She smiles cheesily, eyes squinted, and leans into me.

"Let's take a bunch," she says.

We take a slew of pictures in all different positions, me kissing her cheek, her kissing mine, one of us kissing each other on the lips. I take solo ones of her as she runs towards the water, gloved hands outstretched to either side of her body, and when she turns around she has her mouth wide open in a manic grin.

She insists on taking solo ones of me, but I barely let her get any in. I'm not huge on being in front of the camera, but I like capturing her that way.

She runs back to me, laughing breathlessly, and I hand back the phone. She folds herself into my arms, torso pressed against mine, and snaps a picture before I can prepare, while I'm still gazing at her.

"My necklace is cold on me," she says, shivering playfully.

"You can take it off," I say, as she slips the phone back in her pocket and entwines her fingers with mine.

"No," she says, pouting out that lower lip. "I'm never taking it off."

I smile to myself and squeeze her hand, and she leans her arm against mine as we walk down the hard, packed sand. The lake is dark and swarthing for the winter, both intimidating and magnificent to look at.

"I'm proud of you," April says, interrupting my thoughts. I direct my attention away from the whitecaps and into her eyes, which are a sparkling green.

"What?" I say.

"I'm proud of you," she repeats, tightening her grip on my fingers for emphasis.

"I didn't do anything," I say.

She shrugs. "It doesn't matter," she says. "And anyway, yes you did. You practically run that deli on your own, and you're brave enough to become a lawyer. Remember when I told you I can't argue without crying?" She giggles at herself. "You're strong and passionate, and I'm thankful you're in my life."

"I'm the one who should be thankful," I say, separating our hands and holding her shoulders. I kiss her temple and she presses against me, soaking up the affection. I've never known someone more affectionate than April. "I haven't been the same since I met you."

"Guess we're just perfect for each other," she says, smiling as she tips her chin to look me in the eyes.

"Guess so."

We share a quiet moment as we walk, eyes roving over each other's features as we grow to memorize them. Then, April wets her lips and whispers, "Kiss me."

And of course, I do.

...

One morning about two months later, April and I are getting ready at her place. It's March now, still cold as ever, but there's a hint of spring on the rise. Color is coming back into the city, and it's refreshing as the days get longer and nights shorter.

"You should eat," she says, coming out of the bathroom in a towel.

I'm standing at the kitchen counter, hands braced in front of me, leaning forward. My stomach is in knots. We've been helping each other for the past 8 weeks or so to prepare for what today offers. She has a big audition for _The Glass Menagerie_ , and I'm taking the real LSAT exam this morning.

I've taken two other practice exams since the last one. The first one was difficult, but April cracked down on my study techniques and made the second all that much easier. I'm confident that I'll do well today, at least I was last night. Right now, I'm a living body of nerves, barely able to stand up straight.

"Tried," I say. "My stomach's funky."

"You need your strength," she says, walking over and peeling a banana. "Split this with me, at least."

I sigh, but take half from her. I force myself to eat it, though everything within me protests.

She rubs my back and gives me a smile, holding the towel knot near her armpit. "You're gonna do great," she says. "On the last practice one, you got a 158. If you get that again… babe, you're in."

I sigh again, clenching my jaw. Suddenly, the banana isn't sitting so well with me.

"I need to get above a 160," I say. "That's the only way Loyola will accept me."

"So, you'll do it," she says, hand still moving. "You have your letters of recommendation, your personal statement, all you need is this score. And I know you can get it."

I nod slightly. I know she can tell I'm not completely sure of myself, but admittedly her presence does make me feel better.

"And if you don't do great this time, there's always retakes."

I shake my head. "I don't even want to think about that."

April won't hear it, but retaking the actual exam isn't an option. If I don't do well the first time, I'll just have to accept that this isn't the career path for me. I won't subject myself to the humiliation that is going back in there to get beat down a second time, of my own volition. That's not who I am; that's not what Averys do.

"Do you have everything you need for the audition today?" I ask her, changing the subject.

"Yep," she says. "Got my monologue down, and my new headshots came in the other day. Wanna see?"

"Of course."

She goes to her desk and grabs a manila folder, from which she pulls out an 8x10 photo of herself in high definition. She holds it up and I smile - she's wearing a turquoise top, not smiling, eyes smoldering into the camera. Her skin is flawless and her hair is thick and shining; she's perfect.

"Gorgeous," I say. "Almost as beautiful as the real thing."

"Stop," she says, sliding the photo back in the folder as she glances at the clock. "Oh, baby, you better go. You don't wanna catch rush hour on the train."

I follow her eyes and look at the time - she's right.

"Okay," I say, and hold her in my arms as she gives me a tight hug.

"You got this," she says, looking up at me. "Okay? I believe in you." She pauses, then her face lights up. "Oh, I have something for you. I almost forgot." She scurries away, then comes back with her hands cupped together as she holds something inside them. "I know you're not into religion or anything," she says. "And I don't know if I am all that much anymore, either. But I saw this, and it made me think of you. That maybe you could hold onto it as your good luck charm."

She opens her hands, and sitting in the middle of her palms is a small rock with the word 'faith' etched into it. Her eyes are gleaming, so proud of what she found, and my chest floods with warmth as I take it from her.

"Thank you," I say, rubbing my thumb over the smooth surface.

She takes it back quickly, just to press a kiss to it. "There," she says. "Now, it's like I'm with you."

I bid her goodbye and step out into the forceful wind, headed towards the Red Line to head north where I'll take the exam. I try not to obsess over it on the way there, try to rid my mind of anything but April's face. Thinking about her calms and centers me in a way that trying to prepare doesn't. I'm prepared enough - I have to keep telling myself that. I've studied tirelessly for weeks upon weeks. There's nothing more I can do at this point.

I think about April in her audition. She's been chasing the part of 'Laura' ever since she found out the production was being put up at the Victory Gardens theater, and she deserves to get it. She's had a few sporadic auditions before this one and after _White Christmas_ , but they didn't amount to anything. This is the big one she's been hoping for.

As I take the test, I try and recount all of our study sessions. In my bed, in her bed, in the Harold Washington library, in my kitchen, at Starbucks. It seems we've done nothing else for the past two months than help each other prepare for the next big step in our lives.

I put my nose to the grindstone and promise myself I won't disappoint her. I won't disappoint her, or my mother. I'm going to come through this time, and prove that I can hold my own.

I don't rush in the exam, but it's timed so I have to speed along. I can't get lost in my thoughts or get distracted. When I'm finished here, the results will be mailed to my school of choice along with the entrance package I've put together, and in a week or so my score and hopefully an acceptance letter will be mailed to my house.

When I get out, I call April right away.

"Hey," she says, sounding breathless. I can hear the wind, she must be outside. "How'd it go?"

"No, you first," I say. "How was the audition?"

"Good, I think," she says. "It's hard to tell what they're thinking as they stare at you. But I think I performed my monologue really well. There's not much more I can do at this point but hope and pray. Now, tell me about yours! Did the stone help?"

I smile, reaching to feel it in my pocket. "I think so," I say. "I was confident. I knew most of the answers, and I finished the whole thing in time."

I hear her grin. "Now, we wait," she says.

And I repeat it. "Now, we wait."

…

On a cloudy, gray day about a week later, my doorbell starts ringing like crazy as I'm in my room, watching a movie. I furrow my eyebrows, wondering if Mark got locked out, but see April on the doorstep instead.

"Hey, babe," I say, opening up and letting her in. "Where's the fire? What's going on?"

"I got the part!" she says, unable to keep her excitement at bay.

"Wait," I say. "What?! Oh my god, that's awesome, baby! You got it, I'm so proud of you!"

She launches herself into my arms and I lift her from the ground, spinning around as she laughs gleefully into my ear.

"I didn't know if I would," she says, arms still wrapped around my neck as I set her down. Her face is flushed with happiness, eyes glassy with joyful tears. "It's gonna go up at Victory Gardens. This is huge. This is so huge for me, Jackson."

"I know," I say, tucking a stray piece of hair behind her ear. "And you deserve it. You've been working so hard, baby girl."

She kisses me, holding my cheeks in both hands. "I love you," she says. "I couldn't have done it without you."

"Yes, you could have," I say, kissing her again and weaving my fingers through her hair.

When we pull apart, she gasps. "Have you checked the mail today?" she asks.

I shake my head and my stomach immediately twists. Most days, I put off getting the mail until the very last second, preferring not to know over actually receiving my results. The pressure mounts with each passing day.

"Not yet," I say.

"We should get it!" she says.

I let out a long sigh. "I don't know," I say.

"Shouldn't your results be coming in any day now?" she asks. "And that acceptance letter?"

"There might not be an acceptance letter," I say.

"Shush," she says. "Yes, there will. Want me to go get it?" I nod. "Okay. I'll be right back."

I pace the kitchen while she's gone. Even though it's only moments that she's downstairs retrieving the mail, the seconds tick by and when she comes back it feels like it's been hours.

With the bundle of mail in her hands, she looks up to meet my eyes, hers wide.

"It's here," she says.

"Wait," I say, heart racing. "Fuck. Sorry. Shit. Oh, my god."

She separates it from the rest of the mail, discarding the bills and ads onto the table. Extending her arm, she offers the envelope from Loyola to me.

I hold it in my hands, eyes grazing over the Loyola crest and my name printed in the middle. Here it is, my future, resting in my grip. I'm almost too scared to open it, but I know I have to. Myself. April can't do this for me.

I rip it slowly, palms sweating. When I get the letter out, I close my eyes and take a moment to center myself, wishing I had a Xanax or maybe a horse tranquilizer to make myself calm down.

I only have to read the first sentence to know.

 _Dear Jackson,_

 _Congratulations! I am delighted to offer you admission into the full-time program at the Loyola University School of Law._

My mouth drops open, and I let my eyes scan the rest of the paper. My score was 173.

"I got in," I whisper, looking up to lock eyes with April.

"You got in?"

I nod, and a huge smile breaks onto my face. "I freaking got in," I say.

She starts to cry, fat tears streaming down her cheeks as she embraces me in another huge hug. I set the letter down and hold her face, tasting the salt on her lips as I kiss the life out of her, and feel in my heart that I already owe my success to the small girl standing in front of me, sharing my joy.

When we pull away, she's smiling through her tears. "I am so proud of you," she says, caressing my cheekbone with her thumb. "You did it. I knew you could."

I kiss her again, short and sweet. "Thank you," I say, unable to stop kissing her. "Thank you for… for everything. Thank you."

She giggles as I kiss her cheeks, her jaw, her chin, her neck.

"Let's celebrate," I say, and take her up to my room and lock the door.

Our actions are hurried and hasty, but not in a bad way. In the way that we just have to get at each other, be with each other in an intimate way we haven't been in months, not since the preparation started. And now, we can finally let loose. Breathe. Have sex and let it linger.

"I love you," she says, as I pull her shirt off over her head and kiss her neck. I brush her hair behind her shoulders to reach more skin, and she shimmies out of her pants as I crawl over her in just my underwear.

"I love you more," I say.

Her eyes glint and a small smirk finds her lips. "Prove it," she says. "Pussy champ."

I haven't eaten her out in way too long - we've both been so busy and our minds have been elsewhere. And if neither of us can concentrate, it's not enjoyable.

But this time, I'll make sure to come through.

I pull her light pink underwear off and toss them to the side, yanking apart her thighs to settle between them. Without hesitating, I kiss her core that's emanating heat and she adjusts her hips to get situated, but I don't let her get comfortable.

"Turn over," I say. "Elbows and knees."

She looks at me, confused, but does as I say. I spread her knees as wide as I want them and take her position lying down, her center poised right over my face. I pull her hips down so her sex is flush against my mouth, and delve my tongue deep inside her.

"Shit," she breathes, letting her head fall forward.

I close my eyes, thoroughly enjoying this, and smack the side of her thigh. A small whimper escapes as her hips lower, placing more weight on my face, and I encourage it.

I take two firm handfuls of her ass and pull her even closer, which makes her jolt forward as my lips graze over her clit. I flick it with my tongue, hearing how her breathing changes, and feel how wet she's getting.

"You're close, baby," I murmur, kissing her outer lips and dragging my teeth over them. "You're so wet. Mmm, Jesus, you're so wet."

She loses her breath as she starts to grind her hips against my chin and working mouth, and I slap her ass to keep her going.

"Just like that, baby girl," I say, knowing my words will push her closer than anything. "God, I love this pussy. You know how much I love your pussy, baby, and I want you to come. Come for me, babe."

With a strangled-sounding cry, her hips tremble and buck erratically against my face, even as I try and hold her still.

"Oh god, Jackson, I'm…" she grunts, still orgasming as my tongue flicks her clit, then lifts up to sit back on my torso to catch her breath. With her hands on my chest, she closes her eyes and lets her body twitch and tremble with the aftershocks. "Oh, my… Jackson, you…"

"I know," I say smugly.

"Shut up," she says. "You're so cocky."

"I didn't get that nickname out of thin air," I say.

"I know," she says. "And every time, you gotta brag about it."

"Yep," I say.

Without warning, she widens her legs and sinks down on my erection, which causes my eyes to widen and my hands to fly to her waist. As she gets comfortable, she leans forward and takes me even deeper, and I can't help but moan.

"Fuck," she mutters, urging her hips forward.

"I fuckin' love it when you curse," I say, holding her thighs as she rides me. "God, you're so damn sexy."

She smiles, obviously unaware I liked that, and grinds slower with her fingers digging into my pecs. My grip sneaks up from her thighs to her breasts, which I take in both hands and squeeze as hard as I can.

She bites her lip and whines softly, scraping her fingernails across my chest, then bends to kiss me. She sucks on my lower lip languidly, and I drag my hands over the small expanse of her back, down to her ass.

"I love you," I say.

"I love you so much," she replies. "And I want you to come inside me."

I don't question her, and those words push me over. I spill inside her body as she continues to scoop her hips forward, quicker now that she's closer to orgasm, and when she comes we're both a slippery, sticky mess with both of our end products combined between our legs.

We get in the shower together and when we're both standing under the water jet, she sinks to her knees and sucks me off. I lean against the cool tiles and keep one hand on the back of her head, feeling her bob and take as much of me as she can.

"Fuck, that feels so good, baby," I moan, and when I come, she swallows every last drop.

I kiss her like it's the last time, unable to keep my hands - or my tongue - off of her.

After we're both clean from the shower, we go downstairs to the kitchen and run into Mark, who shoots us both a sidelong look.

"What?" I say.

He shakes his head. "Horny bastards," he mutters.

April blushes hard. "Wait," she says. "You could hear us?"

"If that bed was any squeakier, I swear to god," he says. "And neither of you are quiet when you have the big O, you should know. Her sounds, I can handle," he says, nodding towards April. "But yours… no fuckin' thank you, man."

"Fuck off," I say, laughing as I open the fridge.

When we go back upstairs after we've eaten, Mark glares as he passes through.

"Shut up," I say.

"You're just jealous," April giggles.

"Of him, yes," Mark admits, raising his eyebrows suggestively.

"Dude, seriously," I say, as April walks ahead of me. "Get a life. Quit listening in on us having sex."

"I'd love not to fall asleep to the soundtrack of you two fucking the life out of each other," he says, sighing for dramatic effect. "But you can't always get what you want."

I roll my eyes and join April upstairs.

As we're falling asleep later that night, she's running her fingers over my chest with one leg latched over mine, kissing my skin every now and then.

"I really am proud of you," she says. "I knew you could do it."

I smile to myself and kiss her hairline. "I'm just as proud of you," I say.

She hugs me, pressing her cheek over my heartbeat. "It feels like we're right where we're supposed to be," she says.

I can't disagree with that. It really does.

…

When April's show goes up and my first semester starts, we're busier than ever. When I'm not in class, I'm working at the deli, and when I'm not doing either of those things, I'm studying. April is always at the theater, first for rehearsals, and now for performances and new auditions.

We don't see much of each other, but when we do, we try and make the best of it. We're both aware it's neither of our faults. Most of the time when we get a free moment, we mean to have sex but end up falling asleep because our schedules have made us so exhausted.

But for the past few days, something has been off about her. We haven't texted much, and when I got her on the phone last night, I felt like there was something she was keeping from me. I couldn't put my finger on it, but I could hear it in her voice. I wanted to ask, draw it out into the light, but never did.

I arranged for us to go on a date tonight, and hopefully everything will be like it always is between us. It's the time spent apart that has me feeling off-kilter, like I don't know every facet of her life anymore. I saw the show on opening night and she was amazing, but I haven't had a chance to go back for another performance yet. I plan on it, but I have a night class that's hard to miss.

She understands, just like how I understand she can't help me study whenever I need her. Right now, we're both more independent than we've been for a good chunk of time. It's tough to get used to all over again.

So, knowing that tonight is set apart for just the two of us is a relief. When I pick her up, she comes out of her apartment dressed in a short-sleeved green dress, hair blowing in the early-summer wind.

"Hey, handsome," she says, linking her arm with mine as we walk down the sidewalk.

"Hey," I say, and kiss her cheek. "You look beautiful."

"You don't look so bad yourself."

When we get to the restaurant, we sit across from each other and both order a glass of wine. Red for me, white for her. We laugh when she tries mine and, as always, hates it.

We talk about how stressful my classes are, but how much I'm enjoying them at the same time. I mention my strict professors and the difficult coursework, but also the new friends I've made.

She talks about her laidback co-stars who she's gotten close with, none of which are creepy in the way Matthew was. She tells me how the show's been extended to run longer than anticipated, and how she's been dropping in on auditions every now and then. The last thing she talks about are the casting agents who have been in the audience every now and then, and how much stress they put everyone under.

There's a lull in conversation, a heavy pause as our food comes. As we start eating, I look across the table and see something in her eyes I can't quite decipher.

"I've missed you," I say, and have barely gotten the words out when she speaks quickly.

She spits the words out like she's forcing herself to do it, like she was working up to this point all through dinner. She meets my eyes with a nervous expression, having not yet touched her food, and drags her teeth over her lower lip.

With a quaking breath, she says, "I have something to tell you."


	7. Chapter 7

**APRIL**

When the show was over and my director called me backstage after the final bow, I thought something terrible was going to happen.

I'd been on edge all week. Our performance run was extended, and everyone was beyond exhausted. I was ready to be home in bed, or maybe at Jackson's sleeping in his bed while he studied, but either way - I wasn't prepared to be chewed out by my boss. I wasn't sure what I did wrong, even as I went back in my memory while I walked to meet him.

"April," he said, once I approached, still in stage makeup and full costume. "There's someone who'd like to meet you."

I furrowed my eyebrows, wondering who this person might be. It was silly to assume that it might be a fan, I don't have fans. People don't know me yet. But someone specifically asked my director to meet me?

I felt like I might throw up. This was only icing on the cake to my stressful week, the week that'd piled on worry after worry - all of which I shouldered myself. Jackson was busy, I didn't want to burden him with my problems. I knew they'd end soon enough, but now I wasn't so sure. I was going in blind, unsure if what I would be met with was kind or scary.

"They want to meet… me?" I asked, shooting him a confused look.

"Follow me."

We walked down the long hallway behind the stage, coming through to a private dressing room once we reached the end. Waiting inside was a sharply-dressed woman in a pantsuit, looking official but for reasons I wasn't sure of. I didn't know who she was.

But she smiled when she saw me. She knew me.

"April," she said, extending her hand. I shook it, firm like I was taught. "My name is Jennifer Michaels, and I'm a casting agent with the Aquila Theatre. We're based in New York City. I came to Chicago, drawn by the buzz you created with not only your current role in _The Glass Menagerie_ , but with your role in _White Christmas_ , as well."

"Oh," I said, unable to form a coherent thought. "Welcome. Um, welcome to Chicago. Would you like to sit?"

We sat across from each other, my director to the left of me, and Jennifer continued to talk.

"You're a newcomer to the big stage," she said. "And I can't help but notice your fresh, vibrant presence. Seeing you was an opportunity I couldn't pass up - I've heard amazing things about your live performances, and I was not disappointed."

I wetted my lips. I couldn't believe the words this woman was saying. I knew I was talented, but not to the point where I could catch a casting agent's attention from New York City.

"Right now, our touring company is putting up a production of _Sense and Sensibility._ Auditions were held over the past two weeks. But because I knew I'd be coming out to see you, we left the role of Marianne Dashwood open. And I'd like to offer it to you."

My throat was so dry I couldn't swallow. But I did my best, and accepted the role without thinking about any of the repercussions. Because there was a casting agent sitting in front of me, offering up my dream on a silver platter.

The regrets flew in when Jackson called later that night and tried to catch up. I was quiet, withdrawn, thinking of how everything would inevitably change. My life was about to flip on its head. The last performance for _The Glass Menagerie_ was the following week, then two days later I would head to New York to start rehearsals with the cast for _Sense and Sensibility_. And after those rehearsals were done, we'd start the tour.

Everything was happening so fast. I couldn't help but feel like I was gripping at tree branches and leaves as I sped along, only to have them ripped from my hands by pure force.

"Are you okay, baby?" he asked, having just talked about his day at school while I did anything but listen. I felt guilty. I was supposed to be his biggest supporter, and I was lost in my head, worried about my own problems, forgetting he still needed me. I still needed him, too, of course. But I couldn't figure out a way to tell him my news. My amazing, heartbreaking news.

I'd never experienced something so beautifully tragic.

"I'm fine," I lied, staring at a fixed spot on the wall. I was supposed to go over to his house that night, but canceled last minute. I didn't think I could look him in the face while harboring my secret.

But now, in this moment, I have no choice. I'm sitting across from him at one of my favorite restaurants - and he knows it's my favorite, that's why we're here. I've barely touched my food, and he can tell something is off. I see it in his eyes.

"I have something to tell you," I say, deciding to simply put it out there. I can't think of another way.

Jackson's eyes narrow with concern. "What is it?" he asks.

I take a deep breath to try and center myself. My heart is pumping a mile a minute and my hands are trembling, so I keep them on my lap. I almost don't want to say it, don't want to make it real and palpable. If I keep this news inside my head, it's only a reality for me. Not both of us.

But I know I can't do that. For the sake of the future of our relationship, I have to put it out in the open.

"I was offered a role in _Sense and Sensibility_ ," I begin, and his eyes light up. But I'm not finished. "Not the lead role, but a good part. A casting agent came to my show the other night and talked to me. But…" I chew on my lower lip. He waits with trepidation, wondering what the 'but' might be. "The production is with the Aquila Theatre, which is a touring company based in New York City."

I meet his eyes. I can practically see his thoughts whirling through his mind as he tries to make sense of what I'm saying.

"They want me to fly out after my last show," I say. "That's next Friday. My first rehearsal for _Sense and Sensibility_ is on Monday morning."

He parts his lips and runs his tongue over the bottom one, expression ever-changing. "That's… amazing," he says, nodding slowly. "But what does it mean? Touring? What is that?"

I sigh. "After rehearsals are finished, we travel all around the United States putting on the show. Most of the time, I'll have weekends off. I'll come back and spend time with you as much as I can." I wring my hands together under the table. "I accepted this without thinking about what it could mean for us. It happened so fast, I just… I just said yes."

"Of course you did," he says, voice smooth and gentle. "Why wouldn't you? This is an amazing opportunity for you, baby. I would've freaked out had you said no. This is… this is amazing. I'm so proud of you."

My chest lightens a bit, hearing that. "Yeah?" I say.

He lays his arm on the table, palm up, gesturing for me to place my hand in his. I lift mine from my lap and he takes it, squeezing softly while looking into my eyes.

"This is everything you wanted," he says. "New York City. This is big. This is bigger than anything you could do here. You have to go."

"I know," I say, breathless. "But, Jackson… it's okay to be upset about it. It's all happening so fast. I'm upset, too." I take a wavering breath. "A little. Maybe a lot. I don't know. It's hard to tell what I feel, it's all so much." I meet his eyes. "But if you're sad, or-or mad, or something, we can talk about it. Just tell me." I swipe my thumb over the warm skin of his hand. "This isn't happening in a bubble. It's us… I don't want to ruin…" I look towards the ceiling so my tears won't fall over the edge. "Are you upset?" I ask.

"I'm fine," he insists, with emphasis like he's trying to prove it to both of us. "I'm great. Your dreams are coming true. This is what you wanted when you came here, for someone to see you."

"You saw me," I say, my voice barely a peep.

He chuckles softly. "You know what I mean." He lifts my hand and kisses the top. "I love you, April. And you deserve this. You've earned it."

His words tell me he's proud, he's happy, he's ready for me to take the next step. But his eyes tell a completely different story - he won't hold on because he doesn't want to hold me back.

I'm terrified. I want him to be wary so I have a reason not to go, to stay where I'm comfortable, to stay with what I know. But that won't happen - he's much too selfless.

And I have a dream to catch.

…

We go home to my apartment after dinner, and he helps me out of my light coat once we get through the door.

"What you always wanted is happening," he says, wrapping his arms around my waist and pulling my body flush to his. I feel warmth radiating from him in waves, that body heat I love. "Are you happy?"

It's a strange question. A strange question to which the answer should be easy, but it's not. I know I should be happy, and I am. But it's buried beneath a thousand other emotions towards what I've been offered. It's not as easy as simply 'being happy.'

"Yes," I say. "Of course I am."

He kisses me, long and slow, while holding my jaw in one hand and melding his mouth against mine. The kiss is possessive, dominant, like he wants to prove I belong to him.

"Show me," I breathe, once we break apart. "Show me I'm yours."

His hands find the skirt of my dress, which he pulls up and over my head, leaving me in a midnight blue bra and underwear. There are tiny rhinestones on the hips and straps; I wore them with a specific endpoint in mind. One we'll definitely find our way to.

He claims me with kisses. Without words, he tells me that no matter how many miles are between us, I'll always be his and he'll always be mine. Nothing will change that. When he opens his mouth on the swell of my breast and sucks it between his teeth, I know not a single other person will give me hickeys like he does.

When he disappears between my legs and licks me over my underwear, I moan his name and know no other will ever escape my lips.

Only his. It's like a mantra: _only his, only his, only his_.

I weave my fingers through his curls and pull his head closer, widening my thighs and grinding my hips against his face. He rubs his fingers sloppily over my lips, spreading the wetness he's created, and gives me a smoldering, lasting look.

"Right there, baby," I whimper. "Just like that. Don't stop. Please, don't stop…"

His kisses against my core are wet and loud, and hearing them turns me on even more. I love how he's not afraid to make things messy, push me to my limits, get his hands dirty. When he lifts up again, there's a sheen on his chin that came from me.

Right now is when I'd normally ask him to talk dirty to me, if he wasn't already. It sends me to the edge, makes me feel like a different person for a delicious second, but we don't go there tonight. Tonight is different, though I don't want to accept the reason why.

But I do know it. Tonight feels like a wax seal, a final note, an ending.

Like this is goodbye.

"Make love to me, Jackson," I sigh, closing my knees in on his shoulders to push him away from my throbbing center. "Show me. I need you to show me."

He agrees without words, positioning my legs to wrap around his waist and staring deep into my eyes; I've never felt a firmer connection.

But when he reaches for the box of condoms, I stop him with a hand on his forearm.

"No," I say sternly. "I want you. I want to feel you."

When he sinks inside me, there isn't an inch of skin on our bodies that doesn't touch. My arms are circled around his shoulders, my legs around his thighs, my face tucked into his neck. The weight of his body is something I cherish as his hips pump against mine, and I moan rhythmically with each thrust.

"That feel good, baby?" he breathes, kissing my shoulder.

"Harder," I say, dragging my nails down his back. "And slower."

He makes each thrust last, burying himself within me and staying there for long moments at a time. He sinks in up to the hilt, biting the soft spot between my shoulder and neck as he does, and I cling to him as tightly as I can, like he's the one who's about to slip away.

"I love you," I say, and realize tears are leaking from the corners of my eyes. "I love you."

"God, I love you so much," he grunts, kissing me with passionate intensity as I hold his face while he comes. "I love you so fuckin' much, babe."

I throw my head back when mine happens, arching my neck and exposing the skin so he can kiss it. His breath is hot on me, hands wandering and body heavy, but I don't want him to move. I want to keep him right here in front of me where I can see him, touch him, love him.

When we're both finished, he doesn't pull out. Not yet. He stays, overlapping my body, tracing my features and studying my face. When he gets to the bow of my lips, I kiss his fingertip and hold onto his wrist, pressing his palm against the side of my cheek.

When he rolls off, I wind myself around him. Both of us completely naked, I slip my leg through both of his and hug his waist, resting my forehead against the middle of his chest.

He tickles my back, and I start to cry.

I don't need to explain why, he knows. Before long, his chest trembles and I feel his teardrops drip onto my forehead and slide down to hit the pillow with tiny thuds.

We don't comfort each other with words. Instead, we lie there with our bodies tangled up, listening to the familiar sounds of the other's breathing and heartbeats, and come to grips with the fact that nothing will ever be the same.

…

The J necklace sits heavy between my collarbones as Jackson and I stand by the security line at O'Hare Airport.

I have a big, rolling suitcase to my right, resting on the floor with the handle up. My boarding pass is sticking out of the back pocket of my jeans, and the keys to my new studio apartment in the city are heavy in my purse.

I packed up everything I owned in Chicago and shipped it to my new place. I broke the lease with the studio here, and now my little home above the deli will be rented out to someone else.

"Tell me not to go," I whisper to Jackson, holding both of his hands as we stand among wandering groups of people, everyone headed in different directions. Going home, coming back, traveling for fun. Traveling to a new life they're not sure they really want. "Tell me, and I'll stay."

He squeezes my fingers and shakes his head slightly. "I can't do that," he murmurs, running his thumbs over my knuckles. "This is it for you, pink lady."

I take a step closer, my feet between both of his. He takes his hands from mine and holds the small of my back, and I shrink my arms against my chest as I lean into him.

"I love you," I whisper, my cheek against his heart. "I don't know what I'll do without you."

"You'll be okay," he says, rubbing my back. "We'll see each other on weekends. I'll come to you, you come to me, we'll work it out. We already have the weekend in September planned. Right? You have that on your calendar?"

I nod. "And holidays," I say.

"Exactly," he says, tipping my chin up. "And we can have some mind-blowing phone sex in between."

I roll my eyes and can't help but laugh. He smiles, but his eyes don't show it.

We've said goodbye in different ways a thousand times over the past couple weeks. He came to every single one of my performances, bringing a huge bouquet for the last one. He helped me pack up my apartment, drying my tears as we loaded boxes and bags. We held each other at night, stroked each other's skin and convinced ourselves that everything will be okay.

But now, standing in the airport about to go through security, it dawns on me that this is real. I won't be in Chicago anymore, Jackson won't be a train ride away, and I'm about to embark on a brand new life I know nothing about. Alone, all over again.

I've never been more terrified. I want to dig my heels in, refuse what I've been given, but I know that isn't an option.

"Now boarding Flight 832 to New York. Now boarding Flight 832 to New York."

My stomach twists and my throat tightens. I didn't want our final moments to be rushed, but now they are. People start moving faster, more join the security line, and I know I have to go through. I can't miss this.

"I love you," he says, holding my jaw in his hands. "I love you, okay? Call me when you get there. We'll talk tonight. I love you."

Tears stream down my cheeks and I don't do anything to stop them. He swipes at the moisture with his thumbs, but what he erases only gets replaced.

"Okay," I say, voice wobbling. I blink heavy into his eyes and see that his are glassy, too. But his jaw is clenched - he's doing everything he can to keep it together for me. "I love you, too."

I wrap my arms around his waist, tight as vices, and sob against his chest. I know I'm leaving tear-stains, but I can't find it within myself to care. He strokes my hair, kisses my forehead, and gently pulls me off.

"You gotta go, baby," he says, voice soft as ever. He curls my hair behind my ear and gives me one last kiss, a kiss that holds everything we've ever felt for each other, our past, present, and cloudy future. I lick my lips once it's over, hoping to taste him when I leave.

"I love you, Jackson," I say, still sobbing as I grab the handle of my suitcase and start walking towards the security line. "I love you."

"I love you, too, April," he says, and I walk through the line. I go through the bag-check and pause at the door where, when I pass through it, I won't be able to see him anymore.

I take one last look over my shoulder. He's standing where I left him, shoulders hunched by his ears, hands shoved in his pockets, eyes on me. I wave and try to smile, but I don't think it comes out right.

He waves back, and I linger for only a moment longer before walking through the door that leads to my uncertain future.

…

"The tub is really big," I say. "We'd both fit."

I'm sitting amongst the suds, only my knees poking out. I've been in my apartment for approximately four hours, unpacked nothing, and cried a lot. I went to the CVS across the street, bought a bottle of bubble bath and a Nerds Rope, then came back home.

Now, I'm on the phone with Jackson, gnawing on the candy and wishing I was back home. Even though, supposedly where I am right now is home.

"Better than the cubicle of a shower you had at your old place," he says. "Guess you'll just have to keep it warm 'til I get there."

I rest my head back against the edge of the tub. "I wish that was tomorrow," I say. "I don't like it here. I miss you, and I miss Chicago. I want to come home."

"I know," he says, his voice very small. "I want you back, too."

My throat clogs. "Oh, Jackson," I say. "You're not supposed to say that. You're supposed to say, 'No, baby! You got this. New York is your home now. In a couple days you won't even remember Chicago.'"

He pauses for a moment. "Nah, I can't say that," he says. I hear a faraway voice say something I can't quite hear, then Jackson snickers. "Mark says he misses hearing your sexy moans." I can tell he pulls the phone away from his mouth when he shouts, "Fuck off, dude!"

I roll my eyes and sink lower beneath the bubbles. "I feel like I might not be able to do this," I say.

"You can," he replies. "And it won't be that long 'til we see each other again."

It isn't that long, but it feels like forever. When I show up at the first rehearsal, I'm a tiny fish in a huge pond. No one knows who I am and in turn, it feels like I don't deserve to be here. It must have been a huge mistake for Jennifer Michaels to pluck me from obscurity and toss me here. It has to be some sort of joke.

But even though I don't have much of a reputation, I hold my own. I memorize my lines fast and I'm off book by the end of the second week. I hole myself up in my apartment on my days off and pore over the script, making sure I know everything there is to know about the story and the character. Not only do I read the play, but I read the book and as many interpretations of it as I can get my hands on.

I live _Sense and Sensibility_ , I practically become Marianne Dashwood herself.

After I get used to my environment, I flourish. I regain my confidence and tell myself that NYC is just another city to get used to, except there's no boy of my dreams in a little deli below me this time.

Nights are hard. Sleeping alone is harder. I got so used to Jackson's big, warm body next to mine that when I find myself cold and lonely in bed at night, it's hard to wind down. Every night, I call him and his voice puts me to sleep.

"Did you have a good day?" he asks, voice low and relaxing.

"Long," I say. "We worked on blocking."

"Show goes up in a couple weeks, doesn't it?" he says.

"Mm-hmm," I say, then stretch my arm out and widen my fingers over the empty space on the mattress. "I really hate distance," I say.

"Not as much as I do," he says.

"How's the relationship with your hand going?" I ask, joking with him. "She called. Said you've been overworking her. Give her a break every now and then, she's tired of beating off for you."

"Shut up," he says. "The batteries probably died in your vibrator the second day you were there."

I gasp playfully. "You weren't supposed to know I had that," I whisper.

"Well, I was the one who packed it," he whispers back. "Hot pink. Interesting color choice, baby."

"It's spicy," I say, then yawn through my laugh.

"You should sleep," he says, and if I close my eyes I can practically feel his fingers threading through my hair and stroking it away from my face - a surefire way to help me drift off.

"Stay on the phone," I say. "I wanna be with you."

That's how all of my nights end. At least, the ones where I don't pass out on the couch with papers surrounding me and a half-eaten cup of yogurt on the coffee table.

When we're reunited, I practically ditch my suitcase as I sprint past the spot where we said goodbye and rocket into Jackson's arms. He catches me with ease, spins me around and smiles into my face, his nose pressed to mine.

"It's you!" I shrill, refusing to let go as I kiss him repeatedly. "I'm never gonna stop kissing you. Ever. Ever again."

He kisses me back with fervor, setting my feet down as my arms stay wrapped around his neck - forcing me to stand on tiptoe.

"You're even more beautiful," he says, between kisses. "I love you. I missed you. You're back. You're here."

"I'm here," I say, holding his face as I beam. "Take me home. Make love to me. This whole weekend, I don't wanna leave your bed."

And we don't.

We spend most of the time naked, wrapped in the sheets, eating takeout and leftovers from said takeout. He catches me up on what he's been doing in school, makes me laugh with stories about Mark, and we both glow with happiness.

I knew I missed him, but I never knew reuniting with my favorite person would be this sweet. It feels like something inside me has clicked back together, a light has turned on with a replaced fuse, a broken seam sewn back together.

It's past midnight, and we're still giggling, soft as whispers, between kisses. His hands ghost over the curve of my hips, the dip of my waist, the bumps of my ribs, before gently landing over my breasts.

I've missed his touch, it's like I'm feeling it for the first time all over again. His fingers burn me; I'm sure, in the morning, I'll wake up with his name seared onto my skin.

"I'm so happy," he says, closing his eyes as he opens his mouth over my nipple.

I smile and hug his neck, slipping my leg through his. I press my cheek to the side of his head and arch my back so he has more leeway to my chest, then drag my nails over his shoulder blades to give him goosebumps.

"Don't stop," I say, the smile stuck on my lips.

I'm back in Jackson's arms again, and I can't ask for anything more.

The period is short-lasted, though. Sunday comes all too soon, and from the moment I wake up, I'm full of dread. I lie there on the mattress, face-up with my eyes on the ceiling, my arms around Jackson's heavy head. When I take a deep inhale, it rises as he uses my bare breast as a pillow.

The J necklace is pooled against my neck, I can feel it bunched from the way I'm laying, the metal cool against my warm skin.

I stroke his hair that's gotten long, pulling at the curls to watch them bounce back. I kiss his hairline, hug him closer, then press my face against the top of his head that smells like his boy shampoo.

"Mm," he grunts, tightening his arm around my waist. "You up?"

"I don't wanna go," I whimper.

He wakes up further, shifting and inhaling loudly. He rubs his thumb in circles on my skin and presses a sleepy, absent-minded kiss to my nipple that's already surrounded by hickeys in different stages.

I lost track of how many times we've had sex over the past couple days. We had to make up for some serious lost time, and I'm feeling the effects of it now. I had to get used to his size all over again, but his reclamation of my body was more than welcomed.

"Stay," he murmurs, still half-gone.

I recall back to when we were standing in the airport and I said if he told me to stay, I would. And even now, I want to believe those words. I know for a fact that if he would've followed the script then, I would've obeyed. Without a second thought, I would've gotten back on the Blue Line and gone back the way we came.

But now, things are different. I've scraped together the beginnings of a life out east, and a plea to stay here won't stick.

"I can't," I whisper.

"I know."

We have sex once more - slow, thought-out, intimate. I feel every ridge of him as he's inside me, and he shows me without saying how beautiful I am, how cherished, how loved.

A selfish thought crosses my mind, one that finds it way to my conscious often. I want him to come with me, pick up everything and find a school in New York that he likes. I'm not as naive to think that law is taught the same everywhere, but I can't help wondering how different it could really be. I've considered asking him a handful of times, when we're both desperately pining for the other's presence as we're hundreds of miles apart.

But then, I imagine if the tables were turned and he asked the same of me. I would feel like I was being made to choose - my dream, or his?

I would never force him to do anything like that. We can live our respective dreams while still interlacing into each other's lives, just more sporadically than we're accustomed. This transition is hard, but this lifestyle is one we'll have to get comfortable with. The future is impossible to predict, and I've stopped trying. I've come to expect both nothing and everything at the same time.

If possible, the second goodbye is harder than the first, because we know how much the separation hurts. I can barely look in his eyes, they hold too much pain. When he wipes away my tears, I hold his wrist and kiss his palm, letting him know how much I love him, how much I already miss him.

"As soon as you send me the show schedule, I'll figure out when I can come," he says.

"Okay," I say. "I'll get it soon. I'll send it right when I get it."

He nods, smiles sadly as I sniffle.

"I wanna keep you so bad," he says, tracing his thumb over my eyebrow. "You know you're my world, don't you?"

"And you're my heart," I say, then reach to touch the J necklace. "That's why I have you right here."

"Now boarding Flight 183 to New York, now boarding Flight 183 to New York."

"I really hate that guy," Jackson mutters, then pulls me flush to him by the small of my back. "I love you. Be safe. Call when you get there."

I nod quickly, feeling that same horrible, rushed feeling. "I will," I say, then grip the handle of my bag. "I love you, too. I love you so much!"

He blows me a kiss and waves as I walk away, and I don't miss the chance to steal one last look at him before I turn that corner. His face looks the same as always: painted-on smile, a facade, so I won't see the pain underneath.

I know, because I'm doing the same for him.

…

After rehearsals are done and the show starts, I realize that before this, I've never known the true meaning of the word 'busy.'

At first, I thrived. For the first week, the fast pace was exhilarating and the fact that I had no time to do anything was just part of the job. I told myself I was a real performer, tried and true, and this was what I had to endure.

But now, at the end of the second week, I've lost that vigor. I forget to eat some days, and I'm always tired. I never let my performances suffer, but once I'm off-stage, I retreat back to being a husk of a person.

The makeup artists cluck and comment about the bags under my eyes, about the 5-Hour Energy drinks I'm always drinking, about the fact that I fall asleep sitting up in their chairs. I try to ignore them, tell myself that this is a performer's lifestyle and I just haven't gotten used to it yet.

I haven't properly talked to Jackson since the first show went up. Mostly because I'm busy schmoozing with my castmates or important faces who've come to see the show, not getting back to whatever hotel room I'm in that night until 2 or 3am.

Family and friends aren't my priority anymore. Now, I have to think about my image. How people perceive me, the face I'm showing the world of theatre. I don't have the time or energy to concentrate on anything else.

Food and sleep come last. I don't slow down because I know that if I did, I'd be alone with my thoughts and that's not something I feel safe doing at this point. Once I get over the hump and get a second wind, I'll take a moment for myself. Recenter and reconnect with Jackson, send him the show schedule that I keep meaning to send him.

But that moment hasn't come yet. Right now, I have other people to please who are constantly depending on me.

I've made a friend from the cast whose name is Lexie Grey, and she plays Lucy Steele. We got close during rehearsals, because we were both the fastest learners. She has a photographic memory, so it was even easier for her than it was for me.

We're all out to dinner at a fancy restaurant tonight, and as I'm sitting laughing with everyone at the table, I feel a strange sensation between my legs. I sit up straighter, eyebrows furrowing, wondering if it could be my period. Even though I'm not due for another three weeks, I feel liquid and it's different than it's ever felt before.

I stand as gingerly as I can, and Lexie looks up curiously. "Are you going to the bathroom?" she asks. "I could use a trip, too. Be back, guys."

We disappear into the quiet bathroom that's decorated in golds and whites, and I let out a long breath once I situate the skirt of my dress and pull my underwear down. When I look, though, I see they're completely drenched in blood so dark it's almost black.

I gasp loudly.

"Everything alright in there?" Lexie asks.

I lose my breath, holding it as I see droplets have already formed and dried down my legs without my noticing. I tuck my hand between my thighs and it comes out coated with the same thick blood that's soaked my underwear.

"April?"

"No," I say, quietly at first, then louder. "No, I'm not okay. I'm not. I'm not okay."

I hear footsteps get closer as Lexie stands right outside my stall door. "What? What's wrong?"

I lean forward and unlock the door, and it swings open to reveal the macabre sight that is me on the toilet, covered in blood from the waist down.

"Shit," she says, fumbling for her phone. "We have to get you to a hospital."

The trip there is blurry. I'm not sure if someone gives us a ride or if she calls an Uber, because I keep drifting in and out of consciousness. Lexie is on the phone with someone and keeps asking me questions I know the answers to, but can't seem to vocalize.

Has this happened before? _No_.

Have I eaten today? _Barely_.

Drank water? _One glass, in the morning._

My head feels light and fuzzy and my vision grows black around the edges. When I'm helped into the emergency room, everything is too bright and I have to squint against the harsh light.

I get admitted, and I'm still not sure what's going on. I answer the nurses and doctors as best I can, and get put on an IV drip because I'm dehydrated. Once it gets into my system, I can think a bit clearer, put thoughts together… then the fear settles in.

I tense when a female doctor rolls to the side of my bed on a low-sitting stool. She's holding a clipboard and wearing a somber expression, and I'm sure I must be dying.

"Miss Kepner," she says. "I'm so sorry to inform you that you've had a miscarriage. I'm sorry, hun, but you lost your baby."

I'm gutted, absolutely floored. This can't be right. She must have someone else's file.

"No," I say, shaking my head.

"It was nothing you did," she continues, not understanding my reaction. "Sometimes, this can happen in the early stages. It can happen due to stress, strenuous activity, or pure happenstance. It's not your fault, and nothing is keeping you from trying again. We're just going to ask you to hang here for a couple hours while we get these fluids in you, and have someone come in and talk to you about nutrition."

My eyes widen and I try to wet my lips, but the saliva only makes them sting.

"I'm not pregnant," I say, my voice weaker than I intended.

"No," she says. "Not anymore, and I'm very sorry. There's nothing you need to do, though. The body will expel what it needs to on its own, since the development was so early-on. It'll be like a very heavy period, probably paired with some cramping."

"No," I say, sterner this time. "I was never pregnant. That's… I wasn't pregnant. I couldn't have had a miscarriage, because I wasn't pregnant. I would've known, I-I … there must have been a mistake."

She shakes her head. "I'm sorry, sweetie, but you were. I wasn't aware you didn't know… I… my apologies for that. But yes, you were pregnant, and now you're not. But like I said-"

"This can't be happening!" I shriek, and move erratically only to have a powerful cramp ripple through my middle and send me flying back to the bed.

I pull my knees to my chest, curl into a ball, and start sobbing.

"Is there anyone I can call?" the doctor asks.

Lexie is in the waiting room, but I don't want her to know. I'm not sure what excuse I'll come up with for this, but she can't know.

Not my mom. She's the last person I want to talk to right now. Knowing her, she'd jump on a plane and be at my side within hours. I don't want that.

And not Jackson. No, not Jackson, either. As far as he's concerned, this never happened. I was never pregnant. All of those times we had sex without a condom, without me being on birth control, didn't amount to anything.

Not anything but the stone of guilt, heavy as the one etched with 'faith' I gave him, sitting in my gut. Replacing the bundle of cells that was our growing fetus, the one I wrecked and ruined and killed.

I can never show my face to him again. Never hear his voice, knowing I murdered something so perfect.

"No," I say, voice cracked and empty. "There's no one."


	8. Chapter 8

**JACKSON**

It's been almost a week, and my baby won't pick up the phone.

I keep dreaming about her, too. Dreaming about April isn't necessarily unusual for me, but these dreams aren't pleasant. In them, she's just out of my reach, permanently faced the other way, lost without a voice.

I wake up with a pit in my stomach after each one, unable to shake the thought that something terrible has happened to her. I've called a million times or so it seems, texted double that amount, even sent paper mail.

It's like she's fallen off the face of the earth, or like she never existed at all.

But I know she did. Still does. Because I still have that 'faith' rock, and I keep it in my pocket at all times, rubbing it as if that will bring her back. I've almost worn the etching away, though I'm sure it was created so that wouldn't happen.

I spend every moment worrying. When I should be studying, I'm thinking about her. As I sit in lectures and try to take notes, her face appears and clouds my reason.

"Maybe this is her way, you know, of ending it," Mark says, one night as we both sit at the kitchen table. I have a textbook open in front of me. I've been staring at the same line for an hour: "In civil litigation, an injured party sues to receive a court-ordered remedy, such as money, property, or some sort of performance. Anyone who is injured—an individual, corporation, or other business entity—can sue civilly."

I have it memorized at this point. I know I'm not absorbing anything, but I figure the guise of doing work is better than staring at the wall and imagining April dead and decaying in a dark alley in New York City.

"She wouldn't do that," I murmur, laying a flat palm in the middle of the book.

"I don't know, man," he says, shrugging. "Women can be unpredictable."

"Don't be sexist," I snap.

"I'm not," he says. "Okay, how about this. _People_ can be unpredictable."

"That's true," I say. "But I know her. And she wouldn't do this. We were- we _are_ fine, number one. And number two, even if she did wanna break up… she'd fuckin' tell me. She wouldn't just ghost."

"She could be trying to spare your feelings," he comments.

I shake my head adamantly. "We have a healthy relationship," I say. "Communication is important. We both know that."

"Or _knew_ that," he mutters.

"She's just busy with the show," I say. "She's traveling all over the country."

"So busy that she can't spare 2.3 seconds to shoot you a text?" He raises his eyebrows. "Seems legit."

"I'm not making excuses for her," I say.

"Sounds like you are, though," he says. "This is bullshit. She's stringing you along, leading you on, whatever you wanna call it. If I were you, I'd call and tell her it's over in a voicemail if her ass won't pick up. It's past the point of excusable, dude. This is not okay, how she's treating you. It's fucked up, and I know you see it."

"Yeah," I grumble. "But I'm not calling and breaking up with her, or whatever you want me to do. We're not like that. I don't want to break up."

"Don't see why, if she's treating you like this."

"There's a reason," I snap, voice growing louder. "I just don't know what it is. But when I get a hold of her, we'll talk. And we'll figure it all out. It's doesn't involve you, so butt out, alright? It's not your business."

"Fine," he says. "You're just pissed because I'm right. That's fine."

He stalks off, and my shoulders hunch near my ears as I sit forward in the chair. April will return my calls, she'll text back, and she'll be apologetic. I know she feels horrible for the silence, because I know her. This isn't something she's doing on purpose.

At least, I hope not.

…

It's been nine days, and I can't wait any longer. Instead of being passive and waiting for something to happen, I force things into action and find the schedule of her show online. In two days, it's going up in New York, at its home theater.

Perfect.

I clear my schedule, email my professors to tell them I'll be missing class, and start packing right away. I don't bother with a call, because I know I'll only be met with a full inbox. Full, thanks to me. That bit me in the ass.

I don't waste time with texting her. If she was going to answer, she would've by now.

As I'm shoving shirts and pants into a carry-on sized suitcase, Mark's insensitive words that he's been throwing at me all week ring through my mind .

 _She could be seeing someone else._

 _She's pregnant and it's not yours._

 _She probably crossed the border to sell drugs in Mexico._

 _Maybe she decided to become a hooker._

I shake my head and frown, upset at the mere recollection. He's angry at her for me, which is frustrating in itself. He wants me to simply brush away my feelings and move on, because he thinks it's unhealthy to hold on so tightly.

What he doesn't know is that my relationship with April was the first thing I'd ever felt sure of in my life. I'd be stupid not to hold on as tightly as I am.

I'm sure she'll be surprised when she sees me, that's a no-brainer. But surprised in a good way, I'm hoping. I can't help but worry that Mark's cockamamie theories hold some truth, but then I realize how stupid I'm being in trusting his word. It doesn't mean much; his predictions don't hold any weight. She's my April. She promised. I'm her heart. She wouldn't go back on that.

I hate how insecure I'm being, even as the plane takes off and rises above Chicago. Confidence issues are no friend to a romantic relationship, and I'm aware of that. I'm upset with her for making me feel like this, for making my vulnerabilities and weaknesses float to the surface after I'd shoved them down for what felt like permanently.

Shows how easy they can rear their ugly heads up again.

When I land in New York, there's only a few hours until the show. Not wanting to jar her before she goes onstage by showing up at her apartment, I check into a hotel in Midtown and put my suit on, then follow Google Maps to the theater.

My chest feels lighter once I'm there. It feels familiar, though I've never been the one performing. But even so, it feels like home base, the place where we came together. I can sense her here, and knowing she's within reach is comforting in itself.

I take a deep breath. In less than two hours, I'll be settled. Everything will be okay, and she'll be in my arms again. I hold onto that thought as tightly as I plan on holding to her.

I sit in the best seat I could get at the last minute and open the playbill. April's headshot - the one I had called gorgeous - is listed third, with a bio next to it.

 _April Kepner is a 24-year-old Ohio native who had her come-up as Betty Haynes in the Chicago Theater's production of_ White Christmas _. Before she moved to the Windy City, she attended Kenyon College and graduated with a degree in both theater and vocal music. This is her first role with the Aquila Theatre, but she hopes to have many more. In her spare time, she likes to sing, read, and eat candy._

I can't help but smile at the last part. My girl does love her candy. That's why I brought a huge bag of M&Ms along with the bouquet of flowers I bought.

My stomach is jumping with nerves as the lights go down and the curtain goes up. I'm not sure of the storyline, so I'm not sure when April's character will show. But I do know her name is Marianne - and the girl they're calling Marianne definitely isn't April.

I stare at her with my eyebrows furrowed together. Is it because I'm far away, and not seeing her correctly? I squint to try and make the image clearer, but the girl who's playing Marianne still isn't April.

"Excuse me," I say, to the woman beside me who looks learned in these types of things. "Who's playing Marianne Dashwood tonight?"

Her face is open, seemingly pleased that I've struck up conversation with her in the middle of the show. "Oh, that's the understudy," she says. "I believe her name is Katie Madden. The original, April Kepner, is on some sort of leave as of a few performances ago."

My previously jittery stomach plummets to my feet. Some sort of leave? I stand up from my seat, prepared to take my own sort of 'leave,' and can only breathe properly once I'm in the empty lobby, away from all those people.

I look at the flowers and candy I brought and feel emptier than I ever have. I'm in a foreign city, completely alone, having come here for the benefit of no one. She's not here, and right now, it doesn't feel like I am, either.

I leave the gifts on a stoop outside, hoping they'll be picked up by someone who deserves them. I have no reason to carry them around anymore.

I go back to my hotel room and stare out the window, still dressed up. I loosen my tie, though, and refocus my eyes to stare at my reflection. It's gotten to the point where, without her, I can't quite recognize myself anymore. What do I have, if she's gone? I have law, I have the deli, but that doesn't feel like enough.

April always made me feel like I was enough.

I can't handle not knowing. I pull my phone out of my pocket and dial a number I swore I wouldn't - her mother's.

I know it might be late for her, even though it's not quite 10pm. As the phone rings, I chew on my thumbnail and then rip it from my mouth and stick to jiggling my knee instead.

"Hello?"

She sounds genuinely confused, even though I could swear my number is programmed in her phone. We exchanged contact information at the same time, sitting in the same restaurant.

"Hi, Karen," I say, trying to sound even-keeled, though right now I'm anything but. "It's Jackson."

"I know, honey," she says.

"Oh," I say. I clear my throat. "Um… I… you can probably guess why I'm calling, then, I guess?"

"I can," she says. "But why don't you talk to me a little?"

Something washes through my body that feels a lot like relief. "What's going on with April?" I ask, no frills. "I came to New York today to surprise her at her show. And she's not playing her role. Where is she? She hasn't been answering my calls and texts. Is she okay?" I ask, then follow up with a much meeker tone. "I just need to know if she's okay."

Karen pauses for a long time. So long, that I pull the phone away from my face to check that she hasn't hung up.

"April is fine," she says, obviously choosing her words very carefully. Karen isn't one to speak slowly and deliberately. She's one to let her thoughts run the show, and that clearly isn't happening right now. It's putting me even more on edge.

"Did something happen?" I say, not wanting to seem pushy but desperate for answers all the same.

She makes a small sound in her throat, and I can practically see her disgruntled face. "April is safe," she explains. "She's at home, here with us in Ohio. She's in bed right now, sleeping. She's getting some much-needed rest."

My breath hitches in my throat. "Did she have another…" My sentence breaks in half, and I'm unsure how to proceed. "Another…?"

"Episode?" Karen fills in. "Not necessarily, no. But she was overworked. She's not quite herself right now. Try to give her grace, Jackson. I know she isn't acting in the way you're used to. But you have to understand, I've known my little girl her whole life. And she'll come back from this. She'll get back to the girl you know. But right now, she is not that girl."

Her words are so grave, and they make a bitter taste appear in my mouth, It takes me a moment to realize that taste is fear itself. I can't wrap my mind around what she might mean.

"Is that why she won't talk to me?" I ask.

She skirts the question. "She's taking time for herself right now," Karen says. "Which she direly needs. I know you understand, honey. If you love her, you'll understand."

After we hang up, those guilt-laden words sit with me like rotten fruit. I can't seem to shake them, and what I want more than anything is to see April. Even more than see her - touch her, hold her, reassure her with physical proof that I would never leave her. That I never _will_. I just want her to know that I'm here for her, whether things are going well or terribly.

For some reason, I don't think she knows that.

I shoot her a text. I can't help it.

 **SENT, 10:48pm- Hi baby. I love you. You're stronger than any son of a bitch on this planet. Talk soon.**

I type more formally than I ever have, maybe because I feel like I'm talking to a person who I don't really know anymore. Karen said it herself.

…

I go back home and throw myself into my studies. I don't let myself think about her. I think about contributory negligence, vicarious liability, privacy of contract, and a thousand other terms instead, and end up scoring better on exams this semester than I have up until this point.

I don't give myself a rest even when classes go on break. I study further for next term, jumping ahead on the syllabus, hoping to absorb the lessons without having to waste time in the classroom.

I isolate myself and shut Mark out. I work in the deli when I have to, but turn myself on autopilot. I cancel weekly dinners with my mom because I'm too focused on school, and she respects me for the first time in forever. We're finally on the same page about something.

I don't tell her about April disappearing. It would give her too much satisfaction.

I've come to the point where I think I've hardened. I've built a shell and blocked out any memories of my girlfriend, who I can only assume is now my ex. It's been over two months since we've spoken.

The only time my mind breaks enough to think about her is at night. It's easiest to remember her then; how soft her body was next to mine in bed, how she'd find me and pull herself close, even in sleep. She'd make these cute little sounds as she drifted off, like she was trying to have one last conversation with me. And when her feet would twitch against my ankles, that's when I knew she was gone for good.

So, as I lie in bed tonight and my phone buzzes with a ringtone I never thought I'd hear again, I think I must be dreaming for a fleeting second.

'Love on the Brain.' Fitting. There are a lot of things other than love my brain right now, but I'd be a liar if I said that feeling wasn't included.

I stare at the screen as it rings. April's contact picture lights it up, a shot of her dressed in a dark blue winter coat, white scarf wrapped snug around her neck as snowflakes dotted her fiery hair. Her face is turned up towards the white sky, eyes closed, tongue out. It looks like it could be a shot taken from a movie.

Everything about her was one degree away from being real. Maybe that's why she's gone - she was intangible. I was never meant to grasp that tight.

But I answer the damn phone. I don't know when I'll get this chance again.

"Hello?"

I simply hear her breathing and my whole body feels lighter. A tiny inhale, a gust of air caught in her throat, a beginning beat.

"Hi," she says, very soft.

She doesn't sound like herself. Karen's words sit with me, heavy as ever, as I realize she wasn't fabricating something or exaggerating. Something is different with April, it's blatantly clear.

"Hi, baby," I say, reverting to old habits so quickly. I'd spent the last two months hardening with anger, only to have it worn away with a single syllable from her. "How are you? What happened?"

She clears her throat. It sounds as if it's a struggle to talk.

"I… can't," she mutters, but I'm confused. Can't talk, can't explain? Can't what?

"What?" I say, voicing my thoughts.

She lets a long gust of air from her nose, a deep sigh. "I called to tell you I can't do this anymore," she says. "For your sake, we can't be together."

I'm gutted, absolutely scraped out and empty, by something I already knew. I've known for a while, so why does it feel like my heart is splintering into a thousand pieces and slicing my insides?

"I'm sorry, baby," she says, and I hear tears in her voice. I can always tell when she's crying - her voice sounds like it's wrapped in flannel. "You have to know how sorry I am. For this, for everything, I am so sorry."

I look down at the floor. Suddenly, everything in this room reminds me of her in a way it hasn't before. She stood in that doorway at one point, dressed in my boxers and a sports bra, leaning on the edge, eating white rice with chopsticks. She straightened my desk for me while I studied for the LSATs. She leaned forward on the windowsill and watched snow come down like it was her first time. She laid with me in this bed and consoled me in a way my mother never did.

"I am, too," I mumble.

"You have no reason to be sorry," she says, an admittance. I don't know what she's talking about, but her words hold serious weight. There's a driving force behind them that I don't know the source of, and judging the direction that this conversation is going, I won't ever know.

I won't ever see her again. My light, my world, is gone. I'm holding the very last piece of her in the phone in my hand, and even that much is fleeting.

"I'll always love you," she says.

I lift my eyes. The doorway is empty. My desk is a mess. The ground outside is bare, and I'm alone in my bed.

"I never stopped," I say.

When we hang up, part of who I am breaks off and disintegrates.

…

I can't do anything besides lay in bed. I stare at the ceiling and watch morning turn to afternoon, then to night. I don't change clothes. I don't shower. I barely eat, making sure to only travel to the kitchen only when Mark isn't home.

I don't want him asking questions.

Eventually, I bring a box of protein bars up to my room and leave it open on the floor. When the feeling of twisting hunger in my stomach becomes unbearable, I let myself have half of one. That's all I can handle, anyway.

I don't go to school, and I lose track of the days. My phone dies and I let it. It's come to the point where I can smell the state I've put my room in, but I don't care.

What could I have done that made April cut me off so suddenly? What could've happened that warranted an end-all-be-all breakup, something that I couldn't see her through? Before this, she'd always leaned on me for support. Why did that change?

I wallow in self-pity and blame. I tell myself I never deserved her at all, and I was never the boyfriend she imagined. I was the guy below her, literally and figuratively, working in the deli. There's not much substance there. My insecurities were right this whole time, and I shouldn't have ever glossed them over. My cocky exterior got to her, but she soon learned that isn't who I really am.

But that must've been who she wanted.

My facial hair grows past the point of unruly. It's itchy, unkempt and unclean. But I don't do anything to fix it. My sheets are stale and crusty, the floor by my bed is covered in crumbs, and I haven't changed clothes for over a week. I am a shell of a person, barely existing, all because of what she was able to do to me.

I'm lying on my side facing the wall when my door slams open.

"Jesus Christ," Mark mutters.

"Get out," I grumble, not bothering to turn over to look his way.

"No," he says firmly. "I have something I need you to see."

"I said, get out."

"And I said, I have something I need you to fuckin' see."

I roll my eyes and decide to comply, only so he'll leave faster. I pivot my top half, leaving my hips the way they are, and see he's holding a printed-out online article. At the top it says, 'MARIANNE DASHWOOD SHINES,' and below that in smaller script: 'THE CHARACTER, PLAYED BY APRIL KEPNER, ALIVE IN A WAY SHE HASN'T BEEN FOR YEARS.'

"Why are you showing me this?" I ask.

He lets the piece of paper fall to hit my bed, and it ghosts down to the floor.

"This is what she's doing," he says, voice even but laced with anger. He juts his chin towards me. "And this is what you're doing."

I feel like I might be sick as he turns around and stomps out. I pick up the paper and study it, skimming over the article written about April. About how she's flourishing in the role, bringing Marianne to life, stealing the show every night after her brief leave. And there she is, smiling in her costume, in the middle of the stage. Her eyes are bright and shiny, her smile says everything I need to know.

She's doing fine. She's in her peak form, entertaining audiences each night and achieving her goals. Meanwhile, I'm letting mine slip away as I deteriorate inside my room for days on end.

I sit up and crumple the paper in my fist, then let it bounce a few feet away. She's devoting all of her energy to her dream. It isn't a novel concept; she threw herself into theater while we were together, too. But this is different. Instead of including me, now she's thrown me away to live the life she always imagined. I was never a piece in the puzzle, I was a stepping stone to get her where she is now. I was a warm body, a convenient companion. I see that now, clearer than I've seen anything yet.

Mark was right the whole time.

I stand up and go turn on the shower, furious. Who am I to throw away my dream? I'm going to be a lawyer, I'm going to be the fiercest, most sought-out lawyer in the city, and it won't be because of her. It'll be despite her.

My gut bubbles with rage. I soaked in grief for days over something she wasn't even thinking about. Over something she never cared about. I can't help but feel incredibly stupid, knowing she was off making headlines while I starved myself and became more and more of a degenerate with each passing moment.

She doesn't care. She never did. It was always about her. She'd once told me that actors don't have to be humble. Well, she proved herself right.

I shake my head and step in the shower, the hot water rejuvenating and refreshing after days of being so unclean. I turn my face up to the jet and open my eyes, squinting against the stream. I thought I knew her. There were no signs to show I didn't.

But if she can end something that I thought meant equally as much to her as it did to me, I guess I never really knew her at all. And now, I can pretend I never did.

That's what she's doing. I might as well follow her lead.

…

I pull myself up. I don't have to try not to think about April, because she doesn't cross my mind anymore. That's why being angry is so much easier than being sad. With anger, comes forgetting. With sadness, all I wanted to do was hold on. Hold onto something that never really existed.

I do better than ever in school. I excel in my program and feel confident for the first time in ages. I come to learn that I don't need a pillar of strength to prop me up, I can do it on my own. I don't need anyone but myself to succeed, and I've proven that time and time again.

I've grown into my own person. Bloomed like a flower, proud of who I am on the inside and out. My confidence isn't a show anymore. It's my life.

I graduate from law school summa cum laude and deliver the speech at my graduation. Following the plan I constructed with my mentor during my last year of studies, I secure a job at Clifford Law Offices as a criminal lawyer.

In the past, I would've been intimidated by the tall, sleek building and men and women rushing around in tailored suits. But now, I fit in with them. There's nothing about this lifestyle that I can't keep up with. This is what I was born to do.

I started at the firm as soon as I graduated law school, and make my way up in the rankings as the years go by. I never pictured myself as a highly-competitive, fast-paced kind of person, but with the way I'd live now, you'd never know.

I live in a penthouse apartment overlooking the lake, drive a Mercedes and wear Armani suits. I have dinner with my mother once a month at Alinea, the most expensive restaurant in the city. Every Christmas, I donate thousands of dollars to the St. Jude's Children's Hospital foundation, and throughout the year I scatter funds to other charities as well. I have a longtime girlfriend, Marisa, who I plan on proposing to soon.

My life couldn't be more perfect if I planned it that way.

My mom sold the deli years ago, after I graduated. What she got for it wasn't much, but it's good fallback money if she ever needs it. She won't, but it's still comforting. I didn't go and say goodbye like she wanted me to. I've skirted away from that part of town for more years than I can remember.

It's not something I like to relive. I erased that year and subsequently, the emotions dragged along with it, from my memory. I don't talk about it openly, and even when my mother brings up something so benign as the deli, I have to leave the room.

Marisa isn't aware of April's existence, and I don't plan on telling her about it. It's not important to me anymore, and it shouldn't ever have been. That period of my life was a mistake, one that I won't relive and dredge back to the surface with my soon-to-be fiancee. She doesn't need to know, and I'd rather pull my fingernails off one by one than talk about that year.

The year that I thought built me up, but was really only tearing me down as I wore a rose-colored blindfold.

I don't have the need to prove myself anymore. I'm who I always dreamed of being. I'm the picture of success, a product of my own hard work, and now I get to show it off. There's no convincing others or myself of my worth. It stares me in the face every morning when I look in the mirror.

This morning, it's Saturday. Sometimes, I'll go into the office on Saturdays, but on this particular day Marisa has me too wrapped up in her arms and legs to even think about moving.

I blink at the ceiling, going over the conference in my head for the following week. It's in New York, and I've already started constructing a packing list. Every time I leave, though it's very often, I seem to always forget my toothbrush. That means late-night CVS runs, which have come to be an annoyance. This time, I won't forget.

I stroke my girlfriend's hair away from my face. It's long, chestnut brown, and thick. She hates wearing it in a ponytail, so it always gets in my face as we're being intimate. She thinks it's funny. I've never told her that it's one of my pet peeves.

Her head rises as I take a deep inhale. Between us, I'm always the first one awake. And in moments like this, where I don't necessarily have to be anywhere but I have the antsy urge to get out of bed, I wish she was awake, too. She doesn't like when I sneak out from beneath the covers and leave her. She finds it offensive, I think. But it's not that I don't want to be near her, it's that I have business to attend to. Business that can't be taken care of when we're naked, under the sheets.

Disregarding what I know she wants, I lift her arm from my stomach and work on slipping off to the side. But, responding to my actions, she stirs and opens her eyes, waking up quickly to look at my face.

"Where're you going?" she murmurs. "You don't work today."

"I know," I whisper. "Go back to sleep. I just have to make a few calls, I have an arraignment-"

"No," she says firmly. "It's Saturday. It's nothing that can't wait." She smoothes her hand down my chest, situating it around my torso. "You're off-duty, Mr. Avery. And you're gonna stay in bed with me."

I sigh, defeated. I should've waited a longer until she was more deeply asleep, because now I'm stuck. Not stuck in a bad way, but still stuck.

"I've barely seen you all week," she continues. "And on Monday you're leaving. So, no way are you working today. I don't even want you to think about work."

I smirk. "I'm thinking about it."

"Well, stop," she says, not picking up on my joke.

"Okay," I say, giving in. "If we're not working today, then what are we doing?"

"There doesn't always have to be something," she says.

I don't bother mentioning that I firmly disagree. She knows this. We met at Clifford Law Offices, she knows my work ethic and my beliefs, and I know hers. In that respect, we're not compatible at all. She does well in her position, but she isn't ambitious. Where she is is where she's happy to stay, and I can't relate with that. I'm hoping to make partner soon.

"But I do have a little idea in mind," she says.

"Oh?"

She nods, cheek moving against my chest. "Yeah. We haven't gone to see a show in _so_ long, sweetheart. And _Wicked_ is at the Chicago Theater for this one-night thing. Maybe you could pull some strings, get us tickets?"

I sigh. Marisa loves the arts. On weekends when we both have free time, she drags me to shows, art galleries, indie music festivals. It's not that I don't appreciate the craft being presented, but I can't help but feel that my time could be used more wisely.

" _Wicked_ , huh?" I ask. "That's...big. I don't know about getting tickets."

She knows I'm fronting, I can tell by the look on her face. Deadpan, with raised eyebrows.

"Oh, because you don't donate to the company every year?" she says. "And have a friendly relationship with the owner?"

"That doesn't necessarily mean anything," I say.

"Please try," she says, batting her eyelashes.

I look at her for a long moment, weighing my options. If I say no, there will be a fight. No doubt. If I say yes, I suffer through a two-hour forgettable performance, and then I'll be able to prepare for my hearing early Monday morning when we get home. We'll get back here around 10, have sex, but that won't take long, then she'll fall asleep. And after that, I can work.

"Okay," I say. "I'll make a call."

"Yay!" she says, voice rising an octave. "I can't wait. I've been dying to see this one. I heard the leading ladies are fantastic."

I get up out of bed, missing the latter half of Marisa's sentence about the women being Chicago natives or something, and pull on a pair of boxers. Scratching my head as I make my way into the office for my laptop, I know I need to go for a run. If I can't work, I need to run. I have too much pent-up energy and frustration.

"Don't you dare start working!" Marisa calls.

"I'm getting the-" My voice starts off brash, defensive. I clear my throat and calm myself. "I'm just looking up the show."

"Call first!" she says. "I wanna make sure we can get in. It's still early."

I concede, finding the owner's number in my phone and wandering the bedroom as it rings. When he picks up, we share a few minutes of familiar conversation and he tells me that of course, there's room for us. It's only a one-night thing, but for me he'd pull almost any string.

Marisa is celebrating by the time I hang up. "I'm gonna go buy a new dress," she says, standing up completely naked. I don't resist the urge to stare at her body - her porcelain skin, untouched by any freckles or scars, stretching as she arches her arms above her head. Her long hair falls over her back and she turns to look at me over her shoulder, smiling. "Thank you, sweetie."

"Mm-hmm," I say, pulling the laptop open.

"I can always count on you," she says, looping her arms around my neck from behind as she crawls across the bed. Her voice is saccharine.

"That you can," I say, typing in the necessary information about this show. I want to know what I'm getting myself into.

"I love you," Marisa sings, tucking her face into the side of my neck as I type.

"Yeah, babe," I say, an inch of a smile on my lips. I click on the appropriate link, the one-night production of _Wicked_ in Chicago, and practically throw my laptop across the room.

It's been years. Years, since I've seen her. But there she is, April in all her glory, wearing a blue dress, posed next to a woman with green skin. Her hair is blonde, but it might be a wig. I almost don't recognize her without the fiery red locks, but I'd know that face anywhere.

I shut the laptop with a loud 'clack' and stand up, forcing Marisa away from me.

"Hey, I was reading," she says, reaching for the computer again.

I clear my throat, brain working overtime to think of an excuse. I'm an attorney for god's sake, I should be able to do better than this on the spot.

"Honey, what's up with you?" Marisa asks, reopening the laptop and setting it on her lap. "You look like you've seen a ghost."

Little does she know, I have.

"I can't - we can't go tonight," I say, turning around so I don't have to face her.

"What are you talking about?" she counters. "You just got us tickets. You talked to Germaine."

"Yeah, and he said it wasn't a for sure thing, and I just got a text. He said it's a no-go."

"Stop… what are you doing?" she asks, squinting. "Why are you lying? What is going on?"

Bad excuse. Stupid, horrible excuse.

"I think I'm getting sick," I say. Another lie, but one that's much closer to the truth. I do feel like I might throw up.

"So, first our tickets are revoked, now you're coming down with something?" she says, warily. "Pick one, Jackson."

I let out an exasperated sigh, but don't respond with words. I have no good answer.

"Why don't you wanna go tonight?" she asks.

 _Because the girl who I thought I was gonna marry plays the lead, and I can't handle watching and listening to her for two hours without reliving what she did to me._

"I'm anxious about the conference," I say. Lie. Huge lie. I never get anxious about those types of things. "I'm sorry for the excuses. I just didn't want you to think less of me."

I'm being horrible, pulling on her heartstrings on purpose. I know this, and promise myself I'll make it up to her eventually.

"Oh, honey," she says, patting the bed next to her. I sit, and close the laptop. April was staring at me otherwise.

April always knew when I was lying. Well, that's not true. I never lied to her. She always knew my true intentions, my true feelings, is the better way to put it.

I haven't thought about her for a decade. Not since I was 24. And now, nearing my 35th birthday, all of those memories are resurfacing like cancer come back from remission.

"A night out will make you feel better," Marisa says, stroking my arm. "We'll have fun. You can wear one of your nice suits, and I'm going to buy a dress like I said. You can pick me up at my place, it'll be super romantic, and I'll come back here and spend the night." She hugs my shoulders. It takes all I have not to shrug her off. "I'll make you feel better."

I force a smile, but it probably looks more like a grimace. She doesn't notice. She never does.

"Okay," I say, because I've run out of ammunition.

"It'll be a nice night."

"Yeah," I say. "It will."

But the bile rising in the back of my throat says differently.


	9. Chapter 9

**APRIL**

I don't take the medication I was prescribed for the severe cramping after the miscarriage. As I lie in bed at home in Ohio, tears welling in my eyes, I tell myself I deserve the pain.

Though it only lasts for two days, it seems like light-years. My lower belly stretches and tugs, the muscles ripping at the seams, as my body becomes used to everything it had once been. There's no life harbored there anymore. At the doctor's, there was no surefire way of knowing how long I held that life for. It could've been days, could've been up to a month.

Jackson and I had a lot of thoughtless, unprotected sex. It always happened so fast; we were so caught up in the moment. And at the time, it felt right. It never seemed like it would amount to a life, then the loss of a life.

I spend days holed up in my childhood room, knowing I'm to blame for the miscarriage. I was under incredible amounts of stress in New York, barely eating, barely drinking water, and rarely getting more than three hours of sleep per night. If I was barely surviving, how could a fetus?

As I'm frozen in time, I can't help but wonder what would've happened had I not miscarried. Would I have given the baby up for adoption, or kept it? There's no way I would've been able to live my dream had I kept it. It would've flipped my plans on their head.

But maybe, with Jackson's baby, I would've created a new dream. Life is written in pencil, anyway - always subject to change. We could've made it work.

We. It's a word I'm no longer familiar with, having never felt more alone than I do in my pink bed in the midwest. The pink bed I know so well - the one I jumped on in elementary school, read Bop Magazine on in middle school, and painted my nails on while crying over boys in high school. And now, resting here after miscarrying a child created with the love of my life.

The love of my life who deserves so much better than I can give him. I did the worst thing imaginable - I killed our baby. I can never come back from this; he'll never look at me the same. I can read his eyes better than I can do anything, so I'd know right away that he was judging me. I'd judge me, too.

So, for his sake, as I lie there in the dark for days on end with the curtains pulled, I convince myself to end our relationship. I know he won't understand. I know he'll be hurt, angry even. But in the long run, he'll see my side.

When I make the call, my throat is dry and my head feels empty. Emptier than it has in the days preceding, and that's saying a lot.

But his voice is warm. For a moment, it envelops me like I'm bathing in honey. I'm comforted for the first time in days. With just one simple greeting, one simple term of endearment, I feel, for a fleeting second, like I'm his again.

I love it when he calls me 'baby.' It lights me up inside. So, when the word escapes his lips and tumbles against my ear, I practically taste its sweetness.

But I refuse to let myself get caught up in my emotions, if only to spare his. He starts off with questions, like I assumed he would, ones I can't answer, and won't. I won't burden him with the knowledge I'll never lose. He should live out his life not knowing - it'll make me much easier to forget.

When I tell him the reason I called, something shatters between us. Not physically, but something breaks and crumbles, a thousand tiny fragments at our feet. I feel it, I can almost reach out and touch it. The pain we share is tangible. It's more real than the cramps in my stomach.

I tell him I'm sorry, and of course he apologizes back. Because he doesn't know what I've done, he says he's sorry, too. But I won't accept it. I make sure he knows it's nothing he did, and hope he won't carry that weight with him. It's mine to shoulder, and I'll do it alone.

I tell him I love him. There's nothing more to say. I hope he can hold onto that, above all else, and remember me fondly. But if he doesn't - if he remembers me with blame and malice - I'd understand that, too.

…

After I rejoin the _Sense and Sensibility_ cast, I throw myself into the work. While going to therapy, I figure out a way to balance my health and my career, and finally feel like my feet are firmly on the ground. My head is clear, and I'm able to focus on both the future and the present.

The past is a different story. The past hurts. But that doesn't mean I don't think about Jackson and the baby that never was every single day. I think about them all the time - during rehearsals, performances, cast dinners and when I hang out with my friends from the show.

I've never told Lexie what really happened in that bathroom. I told her I have menstruation problems, and it was an abnormal period. She believed me, too. The only person who knows the truth is my mother, and when she found out she wanted to shelter me from the world.

Funny thing was, I let her. I think part of me wanted to be sheltered, too.

After _Sense and Sensibility_ comes a production of _Romeo and Juliet_ , where I land the role of Juliet. It comes with the most attention I've ever gotten for a role, and I'm so swept up in the play, swept up in her, that some days I find myself forgetting to think about the bricks strapped to my back. Sometimes, I find myself happy without having to try.

But when I realize it, the guilt drowns me all over again. Who am I to experience happiness and joy after what I did?

With this play, comes a small, tight-knit group of fans. I see familiar faces at each show, beaming and asking me to sign their playbills, amazed by my presence alone. It stirs something new in me, knowing people are following my career. Me, of all people, cultivating a fanbase. I'm the same person I've always been - I still stand in front of the TV in my underwear, eating a lollipop while flipping through the channels. I still sometimes use conditioner before shampoo because I forget to read the bottle. I still drink expired milk if it isn't too far past the 'use-by' date.

To myself, I'm still so normal. So, the fact that I'm being put on a pedestal by these people who don't even know me is bizarre and surreal.

The thought sometimes sneaks into my mind, though - if they knew, would they still like me as much? Would they still have the same respect for me, if they knew what I did to Jackson? Or even worse, what I did to our baby?

Even though we aren't in the same show anymore, Lexie becomes one of my closest friends. One night, after a performance and before our day off the next day, we buy a slew of wine and drink it in my living room, laughing ourselves silly over things that aren't funny.

I'm lying on the floor and she's on the couch, both of us staring at the ceiling. I have the hiccups, and every time I let one go, Lexie cracks up.

"I got a question," she slurs, clearing her throat.

"Shoot," I say. The room starts to spin, but slowly. It's pleasant.

"Have you ever had like a… a big, big love? Like crazy, out-of-this-world, huge love?" She sighs dreamily. "Because I don't think I have. And let me tell you, I'm getting tired of waiting."

My thoughts are fuzzy around the edges, blurry. Jelly-filled and loamy, like I could hold them between my palms and squeeze until all my deeply-buried secrets come streaming out.

"Yeah…" I trail off. "I have. I really, really have."

She sits up quickly. So quickly, that the room spins faster even for me, and I haven't moved.

"Oh, please, tell me," she says.

I look at her with my eyes only and don't hesitate before I start talking about him. Sober me would never let his name pass my lips, but drunk me is dying for a reason to taste it.

"Jackson," I say, then look towards the ceiling again. "My Jackson. My perfect, sweet, lovely Jackson."

"What happened?" she asks, leaning forward with interest.

I sit up slowly, trying to steady the tilt-a-whirl living room. I pull down the collar of my shirt and showcase the necklace I still never take off.

"This is for him," I say.

"You said that stood for 'joy,' so you'd always remember to be happy."

"I lied," I say. "It stands for Jackson, and I was… I am… I was…" I flop back on the soft carpet, arms out to either side. "In love with him. So hard. So big. Huge. Huge love."

"What happened?" Lexie presses, asking again.

"I ruined it," I state simply, as my throat clogs. I haven't talked about him since the miscarriage happened, curled on my bed with my mom sitting next to me. This makes it real. This makes it more than a melancholy memory stuck in Ohio. He is gone, and I'll never get him back. And it's all my fault.

"What'd you do?"

I start to cry, but silently. As I lie on my back, the tears drip from the corners of my eyes and leak into my ears, leaving warm trails in their wake.

"I wasn't enough," I whisper, then cover my face with my hands.

…

Years pass. Years full of plays and musicals, my name growing bigger in the theatre world with each one that goes up. There have been flops, of course, but more importantly, there have been huge successes. I get an agent, an assistant, and a very loyal group of fans.

It's not like I'm followed on the street by paparazzi, or even that I'm recognized in the morning when I stop at the corner Starbucks - not by anyone but my favorite baristas, of course. But while I'm shopping, or running errands, or something equally mundane, it isn't rare to get stopped and asked for a selfie by a die-hard theatre fan. It's New York City - it isn't exactly rare.

And I grow to love it. My fans make me feel surrounded by a support system at all times; like no matter what, I can do no wrong. It's some sort of unconditional love. I'll run into some of them wearing t-shirts with my face on them, my face all the way back from my _White Christmas_ days.

I never look at those shirts for too long.

Certain things bring me back to those days. The memories fade quickly, replaced by something in the present more pressing. But they're still there, buried under years of success, years full of what I've always wanted.

But there's a tiny hole, a patch of emptiness, that I've never been able to fill.

That seems to change, though, when I meet Andrew. Since my success, I haven't shown genuine interest towards men. As I grow more popular, they become interested in me, but I learn the art of the gentle 'no, sorry.' Or the 'no, I'm seeing someone.' That one makes it easier to get them off my back.

But Andrew is different. I watch him as he sings in a cozy cafe, and when we lock eyes I feel something open in my chest that had been locked for a long time. He introduces himself and has no idea who I am, which I prefer. He takes me to Central Park for our first date and we walk as the snow falls, and I feel worthy of these feelings for the first time since I closed up my heart.

We've been together for a few years. He was with me when my agent got the call that I was invited to audition for _Wicked_ , which was an honor in itself, to be personally asked. He was there when I got the part of Glinda, which had been my dream since I was a teenager. He was there for the first performance, watching from backstage and spinning me around the dressing room after I finished.

And now, he's here as we sit next to each other in the back of a car, driving through downtown Chicago.

"How's it feel to be back?" he asks.

I take his hand and keep my eyes directed out the window. Traffic is slow, which I appreciate for the first time. It lets me study everything as we pass it, recollecting memories I didn't know I was holding onto.

"Crazy," I say, squeezing his fingers. "Look. See that Starbucks right there? I used to go there to study my lines. And just down this way is where I used to live."

We cruise a bit further down the street, then come to a stop in front of the deli and my old studio above it.

"Oh, no," I say.

The shop I used to know so well, with the lit-up windows and welcoming interior, is boarded up and desolate. There's no more big sign that says 'Delicatessen,' no more red barstools, and no more life. It's closed, gone forever.

"It's closed," I murmur.

"What?"

"The…" I pause, trailing off. I can't wrap my mind around the fact that it's not here anymore. I let my eyes wander upstairs to the front window of the apartment, finding that dark and empty, too. No one running the deli, no one living in the studio.

It makes me feel more hollow than it should.

"They're empty," I say again, equally as quiet.

"It's been a long time, sweetie," Andrew says, stroking my skin with his thumb. "The business probably went under."

"It couldn't have gone under," I say, eyes still on the building as the car starts moving again. Even though it's of my free will, it still seems like I'm being dragged away. And even though the memories are still there, I feel like a piece of who I used to be has been carefully cut out and discarded.

For some reason, I feel a twinge of resentment that Jackson never told me. I don't know why, because the deli wasn't mine, but I felt like it was. I was in there so much, I used to live above it, it was a part of me. And now, it's just a cold, empty building. Like what all that happened there never mattered.

"You okay?" Andrew asks.

I turn back from the window to look at him. "I used to live above it," I say. "Remember, I told you about the little studio?"

"Oh, yeah," he says. "The one that's about the size of your living room now?"

I force a smile, a tiny one, onto my lips. "Yeah, that one," I say. "It just feels weird. I don't know. I know it was a long time ago, but for some reason I felt like we'd drive by and it'd be the same way I left it."

The same way I left it, meaning Jackson would be inside the deli, standing behind the counter, asking me if I'm hungry. Telling me I need to eat, it's on the house.

I furrow my eyebrows and shake my head. I don't think about him anymore, but the fact that we're in his city is making that impossible right now.

I've never told Andrew about Jackson, and I don't plan to. He's a part of my life that I keep completely to myself. Lexie knows about him, and so does my assistant, Lila, who knows everything about me. Besides my family, those two are the only ones who are aware I had a big love that I lost.

But Lexie still doesn't know about the miscarriage. That's a secret between my mother and me.

Sometimes, while I'm in bed with Andrew, I dream about babies. One baby, in particular. One with warm, bronze skin, flyaway black curls and sea glass eyes. Held in my arms, chubby and smiley, reaching for my face and calling me 'mama.'

Then, I wake up and look to the man beside me. The man who I love, but if he fathered my children, they would come out as creamy white as I am. There would be no bronze in our children, no thick, beautiful hair, no sparkle of Jackson's green eyes.

I know it's not mine and Andrew's child I'm dreaming about.

"How long did you live here again?" he asks.

"About a year," I say, eyes traveling up the skyscrapers.

"Did you like it?"

I scoot closer to him, sitting the middle seat instead of the right, and lean my head against his shoulder. Though I have everything I could ever want right in front of me, there's a yearning deep inside that's only perpetuated by the city we're in. It's a nagging sensation, persistent in that it won't let me stay in the present. It keeps yanking me back to the past.

The past, where I'd come home after a long day of auditions to Jackson in the deli, and he'd pick a song on the jukebox. When there were no other customers, he'd take me in his arms and we'd dance to it. No matter if it was fast-paced or slow.

The past, where I'd see him in the front row of my shows, beaming like he'd never seen anything more amazing. He'd always bring me candy along with my flowers, because he knew how much I loved sweets.

The past, where I held him at night after he passed out from studying - his head in the crook of my neck, his arms wrapped around my middle, one leg thrown over mine. I'd just lie there, listening to him breathe, and revel in how lucky I was.

Now, I'm lucky for a different reason. I remind myself of that. I have a beautiful life and career. I worked for it and made it happen, and my love life looks different now. Not better or worse, just different.

I sigh, nestle my cheek more comfortably against Andrew, and say, "Yes. I loved it."

…

As I sit in front of the mirror that night and get my makeup done, my body buzzes with the fact that I'm back at the Chicago Theater. I've come full circle, ending up in the same place I began, my life looking so much different than it did then.

"You nervous?" Andrew asks, sitting behind me on his phone. He's resting against the wall, drinking room-temperature water because it's best for his throat.

"No, not really," I say.

I don't get nervous anymore. The stage feels more like home than home does.

"They're gonna love you," he says. "No reason to be nervous, anyway."

"How's it feel to be back?" Carolina, my makeup artist, asks. She's been with me for years, following me from show to show. She's someone who I can always count on to be real - she brings me back to earth and tells me to slow down when I'm doing too much. A reality check hasn't been needed for a while, luckily.

"Like I never left," I say, meeting her eyes in the mirror with a smile.

That's not true. A slew of things have changed since I left, the city feels like a different place entirely. That's because, I think, the place never made it home. The person did.

When I go on stage, I'm transported into the zone I'm familiar with. My lines flow out like I thought of the words myself; when I sing, I own the room. The audience is highly responsive, reactive, and engaged with the show. There's nothing quite like a Chicago crowd - there's something electric about the people here.

During intermission, I hurry backstage before anyone else and sit on the couch in my dressing room, decompressing with my eyes closed.

"April."

I hear my name as the door opens, and see my assistant, Lila, standing there with wide eyes and a frazzled expression.

"What is it?" I ask.

She scratches her forehead and pulls her lips into her mouth. "Jackson's here," she says, never breaking eye contact. "Jackson Avery."

My mouth goes dry, but I force myself to speak. "In the audience?"

She nods.

I put my professional face on; I won't let this get to me. During showtime, I'm unflappable.

"Along with his girlfriend," Lila finishes.

Something sour appears on my tongue. It's hypocritical to be upset over that, seeing as Andrew is in the next room. But still, the taste won't leave.

"Invite them here after the show," I say, voice high and clear. "To my dressing room."

She gives me a long, lasting look where I know she's trying to read my mind. But I won't let her - I keep my expression cordial and light.

"Okay, I'll do that," she says, pausing with her hand on the doorknob. "You're sure?"

I offer a smile. "Of course I'm sure."

When she leaves, I collapse onto the couch and stare ahead at nothing. I don't know what I just did, or if I should've done it at all. Right now, the best option seems like packing my things and running to the airport before the curtains go up for the second half.

But I know I can't do that. Instead of bolting, I stand up, dust myself off, and get ready for my costume change.

…

After the show is over, I clear my dressing room and clean it up as quickly as I can. It wasn't necessarily a mess, per se, but I want to present myself as put together. Because I do have my life put together, and I want Jackson to see that.

I'm not trying to prove myself. I don't need to. I just want him to see me in a flattering light.

There's a soft knock on the door, and Lila's face follows as she opens it a crack.

"He's here," she says, voice meek and eyes wide.

"He can come in," I say, then sit. But before he enters, I stand. I can't choose which is better.

When I see him, it's like being transported back ten years. But at the same time, he's nothing like the boy I left. He's built now, strong shoulders, sturdy chest, bigger than I remember. He takes up space in the room, and it's more than just his size. It's his presence. No longer is his confidence a mask for the insecurities lying underneath, that's his true self now. And it shows. He doesn't need to say a word for me to know.

I center my eyes on his to find they haven't changed. They're still clear, perceptive, vulnerable. There's a phrase that goes, 'the eyes are the window to the soul.' I've never seen it exemplified as strongly as it is in Jackson. Even after all these years, I can still read his thoughts.

And he's furious.

His expression doesn't show it, but his eyes are tossing like an angry sea. I wonder what I'm in for during this meeting, this reunion of sorts.

"Hi," I say, clearing my throat after. The confidence that I always had has waned as I stand across from him, the man who I'd once loved with everything I had, who I once leaned on for support during some of my hardest times. The love of my life, now a stranger. "It's nice to see you."

He's frowning slightly, but he gives me a nod. I hadn't expected him to be warm, but my hopes were higher than this. This is downright businesslike, maybe worse. I've gotten more warmth from an insurance salesman.

I guess that's what history does to people. It created a solid brick wall that stands tall between us, a wall that never used to exist. If it were ten years ago and he was in my dressing room, I'd already be in his arms. He'd already be kissing me, touching my face, telling me how amazing the show was.

"Nice performance," he says.

But this is not ten years ago. This is now, right now. And everything has changed.

"Thank you," I say. "I'm glad you enjoyed it. Both of you. I hope your…"

He raises an eyebrow. "Marisa," he fills in.

I nod curtly. "I hope she enjoyed it, too."

"She did," he replies. "Thank you."

I fold my hands together, wringing them with purpose. My palms have started to sweat, but I don't wipe them on my clothes. I don't want to make it obvious that I'm uncomfortable.

"So, how've you been?" I ask.

I'm not quite sure how I mean it. It could be a surface-level question, answered with a simple, 'good.' Or, it could be meant on a deeper level, if I really want to know the answer. How he's really been doing over this past decade. What he's doing in life, where he's working, where he's living.

But I'm not sure if I want to know all that. It might be better if I don't.

"Good," he says, nodding. "I've been great, actually."

"That's wonderful," I say, and mean it. I've always hoped the best for him, hoped he would achieve everything he set out to do.

"Are you still living in the city?" I ask.

"Yep," he says. "Downtown. Work at Clifford."

"So, you made it," I say, offering a small smile.

His eyes flash. "I did, yes," he says. "That was always my plan. Failure wasn't an option."

"I never said… never mind," I say, growing insecure again. "I figured you would. It's not a surprise." There's a long, awkward pause where the tension grows substantially. "And you have a girlfriend?"

"Of three years," he says. "We're getting married soon."

His words are a punch to the gut; they make me want to double over. While we were together, it was impossible not to imagine myself in a white dress, floating down the aisle towards him. Of course, he'd cry. Then he'd take my hands in his and we'd promise to love each other as long as we lived.

But now, the woman wearing the veil won't be me. It'll be Marisa, whoever she is, and he'll cry for her instead.

"That's lovely," I say, pleading with my voice to stay even.

"She is, yes," he says. "She's great. Beautiful. We're very happy."

I nod, smiling without showing any teeth. "I'm happy for you," I say. "You deserve that."

Another horrible, stretched silence. "And you?" he says, breaking it.

I tuck a piece of hair behind my ear. "I'm doing well, too," I say, meeting his eyes. "I'm still in the theatre world, obviously. Loving it, just how I always hoped. Look at us, we're both where we wanted to be."

The look in his eyes is the first I haven't been able to read, and it disappears as quickly as it came.

"I'm seeing someone, too," I say. "His name is Andrew, he's great. He likes to sing, just like I do. He's good to me. He comes to a lot of shows. We might move in together soon."

Lie. We've never even talked about moving in together. For some reason, I felt the need to match Jackson's level with Marisa, though, and I regret it instantly.

Jackson nods slowly, then says something nearly imperceptible. But I hear it. "Haven't had the urge to run out on him yet?" he mumbles.

I physically recoil, crossing my arms over my torso, shielding myself from his words. I can't look at his face anymore; instead, I stare at his shoes. They're expensive.

"I am sorry, you know," I say, practically a whisper. I try to force my head up, but it won't move. I can't bear to see his expression during my much-needed apology. I've pictured this moment for years, where he's standing in front of me and I get to formally apologize. But now, I don't know if he's the one who really needs it. Maybe, I do.

He makes a sound of disbelief. When I finally look up, he's shaking his head while wearing a snide expression.

"Don't," he says. "If you invited me here to make yourself feel better, I don't want to hear it."

"It's not that," I counter quickly. I take one step closer, and he watches me like I'm about to attack, like I have something up my sleeve. He's never given me that look before. "I just want you to know. It was out of my control. I'm not making excuses, what I did to you was horrible, but-"

"No," he says, holding up a flat hand as he steps backwards toward the door. "No."

My mouth hangs open and I stand there, gaping. We share a charged moment filled not with words, but emotion, before he turns his back and rests a hand on the doorknob.

But he turns around once more, eyes darting to my collar. "You shouldn't be wearing that," he snaps, referencing the J necklace still hanging from my neck.

I touch it self-consciously. At this point in my life, I've never considered taking it off. When I left Jackson, it stayed. Through everything, it hung just above my heart. It's become more than my good luck charm, it's a grounding force. It reminds me where I started, and intrinsically reminds me of him and who I used to be.

I bite my lower lip, chewing on it nervously. "It's just for luck," I say.

He stares for a long moment, then turns the handle. "Have a nice night, April," he says, then opens the door.

"You, too," I say, cemented to the spot. "Congratulations on everything."

He doesn't turn to wish the same to me. Instead, he shuts the door and heads back to his life.

When I meet Andrew by the side door where the car will pick us up, he's all smiles. I can't say the same - I feel like there are barbells in my stomach.

"Hey, sweetheart," he says, taking my waist with one arm and landing a kiss on my cheek. "What took you so long? Amazing performance, by the way."

I smile weakly with my eyes closed, leaning into the kiss. "Thank you," I say, then follow his lead to the car and get inside before him. "And I was just talking to someone in my dressing room."

"Who?" he asks, swiveling in the seat to face me.

I purse my lips and let my eyes wander. "No one," I say, attempting to make my voice light.

"A fan?" he asks.

I shake my head. "No," I say. "Not at all."

We get back to the hotel room, and as he goes to the mini-bar to pour a couple drinks, I slink out of my coat and disappear into the huge bathroom. I fill up the jacuzzi tub and slip inside, submerging my body under the water. I close my eyes and mouth and dip my head under, too, instantly feeling weightless once it engulfs me.

I open my eyes once I'm resting on the bottom of the tub and blink up toward the lights. My hair fans out around my shoulders in long, feathery strands, and I'm trapped in a different world. Not quite myself, not quite here, not quite anywhere. Just floating.

My chest burns as oxygen runs out. I last for as long as I can, then break the surface with a loud gasp of air, gulping for what I was lacking while under the water. As I gasp to catch my breath, I realize there are some lifestyles you can try out, but they don't last. You can visit, but you cannot stay.

Is that what my relationship with Jackson was? A fling, a vacation, a partnership that means nothing now that so much time has passed?

It shouldn't mean anything to me anymore. I've convinced myself time and time again that it doesn't. I don't let myself think about him, he doesn't cross my mind at all. But when I saw his face, all that changed. I remembered the good times, the hard times, the times where we supported each other like we were already married. I refuse to believe that meant nothing.

I know I hurt him. I've carried that weight for over a decade, along with the secret that caused our separation. I was hurt, too, but he doesn't understand why. And in order for him to understand, I'd have to air out what I did. And I'm not capable of that.

As I'm lost in my thoughts, wrapping myself up in a towel, Andrew comes into the bedroom of our suite with two drinks in hand.

"To celebrate the leading lady and her otherworldly talent," he says, handing me a glass. I take it with a demure grin, clink it against his, and drink. The alcohol is welcomed as the warmth washes down my throat and settles in my gut - it helps me concentrate on something else besides imagining Jackson's angry face.

I touch the J necklace absentmindedly, tracing the shape of the letter.

"How'd your good luck charm work tonight?" Andrew asks, eyeing me.

"It was fine," I answer, only half-present. The other half of my conscious is with Jackson, on the night he gave me the necklace. It's with him as he stood behind me and laced it over my neck, and I felt the cool weight for the first time.

He doesn't want me wearing it anymore, but I don't know what I'd do without its weight on my collarbones, calling me back to myself.

"Let's celebrate," Andrew says, taking our empty glasses and setting them on the dresser. He stands in front of me, unties the knot of my towel, and gently lifts it away so I sit in front of him, naked. "You deserve it."

I don't deserve much, if anything. But I don't tell him that. Instead, I give him what he wants and comply. If my mind is only half-here tonight, the least I can do is hand over my body.

When Andrew touches me, sparks don't light up beneath my skin. It's soft, comfortable, and familiar, but it doesn't turn my body inside out. When we have sex, I don't scream or cry out, or even moan all that much. I whisper his name, trail my fingers over his shoulders and kiss him, touch him in the places he likes.

Now, as he's thrusting on top of me, I wrap my arms around his neck and recognize all the ways he's unlike Jackson. The way he moves doesn't have the same rhythm, his kisses don't have the same fervor, and he's only gone down on me once in the entire time we've been together. I didn't come.

But I figure tonight's a better night than any to ask him to try again.

"Andy," I say, watching his face pinch as he concentrates on getting to orgasm. I stroke his cheek, and his attentions turns to me. "Can you give me head after this?"

He scoops his hips against mine gently. I've always wished he'd be rougher, take initiative in bed, show some dominance. But he won't. If anyone's dominant in bed, it's me. And that's not how I prefer it.

"You know I'm not good at it, honey," he says, then collapses on top of me with his face in my neck, hips still thrusting. "Oh, god. I'm coming, there it is. Yes, thank you god. Oh - my - god - yes!"

And with one final thrust, it's over.

"Did you come, sweetheart?" he pants.

"Yeah," I lie, one arm strewn over my head. I close my eyes, faking the aftereffects of an orgasm I didn't have. When he rolls off, I lie there on my back, empty and wanting, as I listen to him fall asleep.

When I'm sure he's all the way gone, I slip out of bed completely naked and dig in my suitcase, pulling out something I secretly take with me everywhere. It's tiny and electric blue, and I lock myself in the bathroom to use it. I turn the faucet on so the faint buzzing can't be heard, then sit against the door with my knees bent, the tiny vibrator strapped to my finger.

I let my head fall back with a clunk as I give myself what Andrew couldn't. My hips lift to meet the machine, and when I find my clit, my mouth falls open and my eyelashes flutter beyond my control.

And as I sit there on the floor, thighs spread with my hand between them, I come while thinking of no one else but Jackson.


	10. Chapter 10

**JACKSON**

Marisa's arm is latched through mine during intermission as we stand at the bar, waiting for our drinks. As I watch the bartender pour the liquid from high in the air, there's a tap on my shoulder. I turn around to see a petite, brunette woman that I don't recognize with her hair in a bob.

"Can I help you?" I ask, tone on edge. I've been on the brink of a break all night. Seeing April on stage transported me to a place I never wanted to return to. I've hardened since then, created a veneer of shelter from the feelings she left me with. Abandoned me with, more like. Seeing her live, in the flesh, is damning.

"Excuse me," the woman says. She's meek and mild, nothing like the people I'm accustomed to interacting with.

"Honey, our drinks are ready. I'm gonna go grab them," Marisa says.

"Yeah," I say, nodding in her direction before facing the woman again with raised eyebrows.

"My name is Lila Morano," she says. "Assistant to Ms. Kepner. She'd like to extend an invitation to her dressing room after the show, to both you and your plus-one."

The room stops. In my head, everyone disappears and the only people left are myself and this woman whom I've just met, with the big, unblinking brown eyes. April. Invitation. Me. Marisa.

"April invited us backstage?" I ask, but the words seem to come out in slow motion.

Lila nods. "Yes," she says. "If you wait in the lobby, I'll find you afterwards and escort you back. Do you accept?"

No. No, of course I don't accept. The last thing I wanted was to see April again, no less interact with her. No less hear that voice, see that smile and know it's meant for me. No, I didn't want to be in her presence at all tonight. Yet, here I am.

"Yes," I say. "Of course. Thank you."

She nods curtly and is on her way, dashing through the crowd in a manner that tells me she's very used to navigating it.

"Who was that?" Marisa asks, slinking over to hand me a crystal glass filled with scotch. Suddenly, the thought of consuming anything makes my stomach turn. I place the full glass on the bar and intend to leave it there.

"Um." I clear my throat and wet my lips. "April Kepner's assistant."

Marisa's face screws up in confusion as she takes the first sip of her martini. "What?" she says. "Why?"

"She invited me backstage," I say, carefully choosing my words. I rescinded Marisa's invitation without her knowing it existed. It'd be messy with her there, too. She doesn't need to know my past with April, and being in the same room as the both of them would only force me to dredge it up. I'm not willing to relive it in order to do so.

"Why?"

I shrug, pretending I don't know. It's become too easy to lie to her, and I know I need to stop. After this.

"I'm a donor to the theater," I say. "She probably wants to personally thank me. Didn't you read on the website? This theater is where she started out."

"I read the page…" Marisa trails off as we walk back towards the doors. "I didn't see that."

I don't pay attention for the rest of the show. It's impossible. My eyes follow April but stay glazed over as my mind travels to what our meeting might look like. I don't know how she'll act - whether she'll be welcoming or icy. It isn't hard to guess, though. If she's anything like how she was, I know how she'll be.

There will be a thin, translucent gloss painted over her face, a mask of happiness given to her by the rush of the performance. It's how she always got after she was done; it helped propel the first time we slept together. The adrenaline, that rush. It's a high for her.

That night was a high for me. But I won't let myself go back.

After the curtains go down, the crowd leaves the theater and gathers in the lobby. When I see Lila approaching, I take Marisa's wrist and squeeze it gently.

"I won't be long," I assure her. "The car's outside. Tell Elliot to pull around, and I can meet you down the block. So he doesn't block traffic."

She nods, then gives me a quick kiss on the cheek. "See you in a bit," she says.

I follow Lila to the quiet backstage area, where crew members are milling about and taking care of after-show business. They pay us no mind, and we return the favor. Lila and I don't speak, and I can't help wondering if she's aware of mine and April's history.

She knocks softly on the door, then peeks her head in to say something I can't hear. When she comes back out, she nods me inside and stays in the hall. I almost wish she'd come in, but once I see April I'm glad we're alone.

She's still in her costume makeup, but dressed in leggings and a loose coral t-shirt. It's something similar to what she would've worn years ago - her style hasn't changed a bit. In a split second, my eyes flit over her body and find barely any discrepancies. It's like no time has passed at all.

But at the same time, I remind myself I don't know her. I never did. The girl I thought I knew never would've up and left me in the manner she did. I won't let myself get swept up in her presence, and in order to keep my anger at the surface I call back the days I spent in bed while she was headlining shows. Heartbroken, while she lived her life to the fullest.

"Hi," she says, and if a counter or sturdy surface were nearby, I'd need to grab onto it. Her voice in real life is different from that on stage. It's understated, soft and light. Like a little ball of feathers tossed onto my chest, a small sound meant just for me. "It's nice to see you."

The polite thing would be to return the sentiment. But would it be true? I can't say it's nice to see her. It's not, really. It's forcing me to remember everything I've tried so hard to forget. So, I don't reciprocate.

All I do is nod and say, "Nice performance."

"Thank you," she says, still speaking quietly. It seems she can't raise her voice any higher. I wonder if she's as affected by this reunion of sorts as I am. "I'm glad you enjoyed it. Both of you. I hope your…"

I fill in for her, hoping a sting comes along with hearing her name. "Marisa," I say.

She returns my nod from mere moments ago, saying, "I hope she enjoyed it, too."

"She did," I say. "Thank you."

A small pocket of silence follows as we stand a strained distance apart. It's hard not to picture the way our post-show reunions looked years ago. She'd fly into my arms, kiss my face all over, and open the chocolate I brought her right away. I'd always comment how her lips tasted like candy, and she'd kiss me until we were both sweet.

"So, how've you been?" she asks, slicing through the memory.

"Good," I say. "I've been great, actually."

I'd never dream of answering any other way. Not to her, not to anyone. There's a certain image I need to keep up nowadays. One where I'm always doing well, always come out on top.

"That's wonderful," she says, with certain emphasis. "Are you still living in the city?"

It crosses my mind as to why she'd ask. Curious, I guess. She's always been curious to the point of being nosy. While I used to find it cute, now I find myself irked by it.

So, my answer comes out clipped. "Yep," I say. "Downtown. Work at Clifford."

We'd discussed Clifford during my LSAT prep, so she knows what it is. When I got the job at the firm years ago, she was the first person who came to mind to call and celebrate. Of course, I didn't, and I told myself I was stupid for even thinking of her. And stupider as she crossed my mind, even further down the road, when I got the news I was being considered for partner.

"So, you made it," she says.

My gut churns. The way she says it tells me there was an inkling of doubt in her head, like I might've told her I was working at Starbucks while putting myself through my third try of law school. I tell myself that all the faith she had in me was fake. Of course, it had to be. That's why she sounds so surprised.

"I did, yes," I say. "That was always my plan. Failure wasn't an option."

Something about her falters. I feel superior for a moment, then wracked with guilt. I shove both feelings to the side.

"I never said… never mind," she mutters. "I figured you would. It's not a surprise." A long pause follows her words that I don't feel the need to fill. If she wants to speak to me, she can speak. I didn't invite myself here. "And you have a girlfriend?" she asks.

"Of three years," I say. "We're getting married soon."

That's not true. I've considered proposing to Marisa because of the timeline only. If I make partner, it'd be the perfect time for marriage. My life will have fallen into all the correct places. But I have no ring, and no plan. I can't picture myself in a wedding, or in a lifelong partnership for that matter.

The last time I pictured that, it wasn't with Marisa. It was with the tiny redhead standing in front of me.

"That's lovely," April says. Her smile is watery. My words have shaken her - it's visibly obvious. I can't figure out how to feel about it.

But I continue. Against my free will, the topic of Marisa keeps spewing from my mouth like some sort of disease. I don't want to keep talking about her with April. I want to keep these two entities separate, and right now I'm doing anything but.

"She is, yes," I say. "She's great. Beautiful. We're very happy."

Something within me is finding great pleasure in rubbing her face in my love life. Showing her that I could move on without her and be happy with someone else. Satisfied, at least. Placated, some days. But either way, it's obvious I've moved on.

"I'm happy for you," she says, dryly. "You deserve that."

I know I do.

"And you?" I ask.

I'm fully aware I don't want to know. That finding out about her love life or lack thereof will only send me into a tailspin. But while I can't stand knowing, I wouldn't be able to stand not knowing, either.

"I'm doing well, too," she says, making eye contact. When our gazes lock, something physical shifts in the room. My stomach jolts, but I won't look away first. She does. "I'm still in the theatre world, obviously. Loving it, just how I always hoped. Look at us, we're both where we wanted to be."

My throat tightens and a bad taste appears in my mouth. I don't respond to her statement, because how true is it, really?

"I'm seeing someone, too," she says, as if she has to match pace with me. "His name is Andrew, he's great. He likes to sing, just like I do. He's good to me. He comes to a lot of shows. We might move in together soon."

By the way she's talking, I can't decide who she's trying to convince more - herself, or me.

I hate picturing her with another man. What we had was so rare, that connection so special, the fact that someone else has her makes me want to vomit. But then, I remind myself that her commitment issues are probably just as bad now as they were before, if not worse. I wonder how long this poor schmuck will last.

"Haven't had the urge to run out on him yet?" I mutter, the words escaping of their own volition.

She flinches, physically winces, at what I've said. I feel like an ass immediately following, but do nothing to take it back. It's out there, sitting between us like a dragon, pleased with its kill.

She can't look at me now, and she seems to shrink in on herself. I puff my chest out further, wondering if I've made her realize how she caused me to feel all those years ago. Small, worthless, hopeless. Unfixable.

"I am sorry, you know," she says.

My eyebrows furrow. I hadn't expected to hear those words. But I didn't come here for a thin apology. Suddenly, I don't know why I came here at all.

"Don't," I say. "If you invited me here to make yourself feel better, I don't want to hear it."

"It's not that," she answers, responding quicker than she has all night.

She comes closer, and I back away. I don't trust myself around her, for reasons that are blatantly clear. She unhinges me, puts my brain off-kilter. I'm not myself when I'm around her - or maybe I'm more myself than I am without her. Either way, it's nearly impossible to get a good hold on the reins when she's near. I won't let myself skate on that thin ice.

"I just want you to know," she says, referencing her apology. "It was out of my control. I'm not making excuses, what I did to you was horrible, but-"

There shouldn't be a 'but.' A 'but' means an excuse is coming. I really hurt you, _but_ I had a reason that made it okay.

"No," I say, firmly. "No."

As I near the door and she follows, the light catches and glints against something on her neck. As she gets closer, it comes into focus. It's the necklace I gave her, the one with the J pendant. The fact that she's still wearing it makes my heart soar while at the same time, makes me want to reach out and rip it off her.

"You shouldn't be wearing that," I say, and the words come out with so much malice that the sound of them surprises myself.

As she gasps, tendons appear in her neck. "It's just for luck," she murmurs.

I don't have a response to that. I don't have anything else to say to her, I've done enough. And so has she.

"Have a nice night, April," I say, and open the door.

"You, too," she says. "Congratulations on everything."

I don't return the notion, because I have to get out of there. I let the door shut behind me, and bluster down the hallway towards the exit that leads to the lobby.

When I get into the backseat of the car with Marisa, it takes everything I have not to shake her hand off my leg. Her touch is not something I want right now.

"How'd it go?" she asks.

Suddenly, the car is much too full with the scent of her perfume and I might throw up. It's sickeningly sweet to the point of being putrid, and I don't know how I didn't noticed before.

"Fine," I say, clipped.

"Was she nice?" Marisa asks. "April Kepner, I mean."

"She was fine," I say. "Just a person, like you and me."

"She seems really down-to-earth and amazing," she continues. "I read about her come-up while you were in there. She grew up in a small town in-"

"I'm sorry, I just… I don't care, alright?" I say, then notice the shocked look on my girlfriend's face. "I don't care about April Kepner and her grass roots or any of that. I'm just… I wanna think about you, okay? About us, what I have. Not what she has. Who gives a shit about what she has?" I take Marisa's chin in my thumb and first finger, then kiss her. "I care about what I have. And that's you."

She smiles widely without showing any teeth, then threads her fingers through mine. "I love you so much, sweetheart," she says.

I lean back against the seat and stare out the window, feeling the steady weight of Marisa's body leaned against mine until we arrive home.

When we get upstairs, it doesn't take long to find ourselves naked and on top of the covers of my bed. I feel guilty in that I'm not necessarily aroused, but I have pent-up energy I need to get out of my system. And fucking Marisa is a great way to expel it.

I lay her down and kiss her neck, tasting the perfume that nearly gagged me in the car, but I try to ignore it. As I make my way to her breasts and go to suck a nipple into my mouth, she giggles and bats me away.

"That tickles," she says. "You know I can't take it, it tickles too much."

I grunt softly and move lower, dragging my lips over her stomach and hip bones until I get to the tight crease of her thighs.

As I'm about to open my mouth, she presses her palm to my forehead and whines. "No, Jackson," she says, closing her legs. "Not everyone likes that. I just… it's weird to me, okay? It's gross. I don't like it when you do that."

A part of me can't help but feel wounded. My head is too cloudy to figure out why, so I don't concentrate on it. "That's fine," I say, fierce energy still surging through me like an electrical current. I want to be able to hold onto her and bury myself inside her, be as rough and aggressive as I need to be to make this fervor go away. "Get on your hands and knees," I say.

She lowers her eyebrows. "You're not being very nice," she says. "You're always so bossy. Can you just ask me? Do you really have to tell me every single time? And anyway, I don't like that position. I've told you that a million times. My arms get tired, and I can't see you. I wanna see this gorgeous face…" She trails her fingers down my cheeks and lower to my neck.

My chest tightens like a wet rag is being rung out inside of it. "Sure," I concede again. "Alright."

"And don't even think about coming inside me," she says, even as I put the condom on. "I don't care what you say, I'm not risking it. Come somewhere where I don't have to see it or clean it up."

I run my tongue over my teeth under my top lip. I'm lucky I somehow still have a boner as I sink inside her, because on during some embarrassing occasions, I lose it while I'm being intimate with her. And that would take more explaining than I can handle right now.

I push myself all the way in and her face pinches unpleasantly. "What?" I say, practically snapping. "What's wrong?"

"Excuse me for being human," she says. "You're big and you hurt me."

I pull out, only letting myself sink in halfway with each thrust. As she gets more comfortable, her hips swivel and it takes her about forty-five seconds to come, then she lays there like a limp ragdoll as I do my best to find my orgasm.

Seeing it's not going to work that way, I pull out and search her eyes. "Can you maybe help me out?" I ask.

"Like how?" she replies, stomach still moving in and out dramatically. "I already came."

"Yeah, I know," I say. "But I don't know, head would be nice."

She raises her upper lip and shies away, pressing her knees together. "No, no way. Sorry, honey. You know I just… I don't do that."

I close my eyes so I can roll them. "Sure, alright," I say, then tie the condom off so I can throw it away. "I'm gonna take a shower."

"You better come to bed after," she calls after me.

I don't give her an answer. We both know I won't.

While in the shower, I beat off with my eyes shut tight and one hand pressed against the cool tile. The water beats onto my back and overlaps any sounds I make, which is a good thing. I don't need Marisa asking questions about what I was doing in here, because then she'd ask what I was thinking about to get there.

And it wasn't her.

When I leave the bathroom, I tiptoe past the bedroom and go into my office wearing pajamas, intending to get some work done. I pull up the files I need, but as I try to dive in, all I can do is stare at the screen as my mind goes blank. Every time I try and focus on the task at hand, I lose my motivation and zone out.

My eyes blur and my vision grows unfocused on the bright light shining on my face. After an hour of getting nothing done, I exit out of my work programs and look over my shoulder before opening Google in an incognito tab and searching 'April Kepner.'

Her face is plastered all over the screen, from present-day to her early New York days. The first page is full of articles detailing her success, and though I don't click on any of them, I find myself feeling proud. The sensation is surprising - she hasn't crossed my mind for a decade and when she does, it doesn't come with anything positive. But as I scan over how amazing people think she is, how well-loved she's become, I find a small flutter of warmth in my chest that I have no control over.

I might not have control over it, but I can try and cover it. Instead of thinking about how far she's come, I think about who she left in the dust - me. The bitterness returns as I remember this is what she wanted, and this alone. Not paired with a romantic relationship, not paired with someone dragging her down. She wanted success for herself, alone. And that's what she got.

I come across a photo of April and Andrew walking out of a restaurant. He's a guy I wouldn't look twice at - tall, but scrawny. Average features. I can't help but feel a little boastful at the fact that he's probably average in all other categories, too.

I exit out of the window and close the computer, packing it in a messenger bag to bring along on my trip to New York. Instead of sleeping, I pack my suitcase and get ready to leave the next morning.

…

Marisa was barely awake when I left for the airport, which I preferred. I kissed her forehead as she rolled over and murmured something unintelligible, then locked up the apartment behind me after telling her she could stay if she wanted. She as a place of her own that's nice enough, but she seems to find herself over at mine more often than not.

When I get into the city, I have a Clifford conference to attend right off the bat. I barely have time to stop at my hotel and freshen up before I have to leave again, but I appreciate the rush. Being busy prevents my mind from slipping into the place that's become all too familiar over the past 24 hours.

But even during the conference, as the head of the company stands at the front of the large room and speaks, I find my thoughts drifting to her. Not Marisa, who would be acceptable to think about, but April. That hair, that smile, her presence in general. I recall the wounded look in her eyes when I commented on the necklace, the tentative way in which she moved that was so unrecognizable. I find myself feeling guilty that I reduced her to a fraction of herself. She deserves a lot of things, but not that.

When the talk is over, I have the rest of the day to myself. It's past lunch, so I walk to a nearby deli and eat a sandwich while sitting at the counter, fully aware of the irony. It's a comfort to be back in this setting, one I haven't been in for years since Mom sold ours, and I let myself relish it. It's a nice place; homey, familiar, though I haven't been before.

After that, I walk through the city without an end destination in mind. The air is cool and filled with thousands of different smells, the city charged with an energy Chicago doesn't have. It's busier, more bustling, and I can see what people mean when they call New York 'the city that never sleeps.' The energy doesn't wane, not once. It's invigorating.

As the crowds thicken on the sidewalk, I survey the area to see what's causing the influx of people. I look up and see a big marquee, which tells me the answer.

 _NOW PLAYING: WICKED, STARRING APRIL KEPNER AND NATALIA HERON - THE FINAL NIGHT! DON'T MISS IT!_

I stop in my tracks, causing a slew of people behind me to suddenly change directions with snide glances thrown my way. I stare at the big, block letters, rereading her name again and again.

I don't know why I do it. But after standing there for much too long, I go inside and find the box office. I ask for a single ticket, it doesn't matter which seat. I don't expect that they'll have any left, but something makes me try. And when the woman comes back with one in her hand, the last one available, she says, it takes everything I have to keep from smiling. I pay full price, I don't care. All I know is that I need to be in that theater, watching April perform again tonight.

I have things to say to her that I didn't get to say last night. She needs to know how I feel, if nothing else. She needs to know that she almost ruined my life. I'm riddled with the feeling that she is unaware of how much our relationship once meant to me, and that's why she threw it away so easily. I can't let her get away with that.

I need to give her a piece of my mind, but the show comes first. And this time, I'll let myself get lost in her.

…

When April is on stage, something lights up inside her. Off stage, she's luminous. But when she's on, she's radiant. She becomes the fullest version of herself, not thinking of any real-life problems or worries. She's right where she's supposed to be, fully inside her character, and watching her so invested in the work is an experience in itself.

As I sit in one of the crappiest seats on the theater, I can't help but become hypnotized by the way she works. She floats across the stage, fully embodying Glinda, and when she sings, her strong, high voice fills the entire room. She's small, but her presence is huge.

I can't help but feel a bit empty without a bouquet of flowers and chocolate on my lap. When I used to go see her shows, I'd always be carrying those things.

As the end grows closer, nerves jump in my gut. I shouldn't be nervous; I'm in control of the situation and I know why I'm here, what I have to do. But at the same time, I'm charting unfamiliar territory. This is April's home, not mine, and I have no one on my front. I'm in a strange city surrounded by strange people, with her being the only person I know. My foundation isn't as strong as it would be in Chicago, but I force myself to go through with my plan.

After watching her come to life during the show, the anger I held so close earlier in the day has faded substantially. I hadn't meant for it to, but now it's hard to dig up and grasp. I know why I'm upset and I'm aware I have reason to be. But it's difficult to keep that feeling knowing that right now, she's already sad about the show being over. She used to hate the last performances, claiming they were more melancholy than celebratory, and always declined the cast's invitations to go out and party.

So, knowing that, I'm almost certain she'll be around. I need a place for us to be alone, preferably away from this environment where people know her and information on us could get out.

I linger at the theater until most of the guests have dissipated. When it's quiet and nearly deserted, I make my way backstage and hear April singing. I smile to myself - I barely even had to try.

I knock on the dressing room door and hear two female voices inside before Lila answers.

"Oh," she says, jumping with surprise. She looks over her shoulder and says, "April, um… it's Jackson."

"Jackson?" I hear. "What's he doing here?"

Lila looks back to me, knowing I've heard the question. "I just…" I say, then clear my throat and force the confidence to come. "She and I need to talk. I was hoping we could."

"He can come in," April says, and Lila pushes the door all the way open.

April is sitting in front of a vanity mirror, dressed in sparkly tights and a thin cardigan, that's it. She's working on taking off a pair of extravagant earrings, and I'm happy to see the blonde wig has already come off and is resting on a the head of a mannequin.

After placing the second earring in a glass dish, she looks at me with an open, curious expression. We spend a moment just blinking into the other's eyes, wondering who will speak first. I decide, since I was the one to show up out of the blue, that it should be me.

"I was hoping we could talk," I say. Straight and to the point. I could've sugarcoated it, could've told her she had an amazing show, but she already knows that. I might as well just say what I came here to say.

She nods slowly, almost imperceptibly.

"Are you free tonight?" I ask.

I barely notice when Lila subtly leaves the room. Now, it's just April and me in a confined space, which is dangerous in itself. I make sure to keep the distance between us, my hands shoved into my pockets.

"I am," she says. "Did you come to the show?"

"Yeah," I say.

She narrows her eyes just slightly. "You came all the way here from Chicago?"

"I'm on a business trip," I say.

"Oh," she says.

There's a deliberate pause where a thousand silent thoughts float around the room, settling on our shoulders before slipping down and curving about the floor. I can practically see them, they're that palpable.

"I'm staying in the Four Seasons on 57th," I say. "If you want to meet-"

"I can be ready now," she says, standing. "I'll just change."

I linger for a moment, then realize I have to leave the room. I shake my head a bit, trying to clear my head, wondering why I reverted back to when we were comfortable enough to change clothes around each other.

"I'll wait outside," I say. "I'll call a cab."

"No need," she says. "I'll have my car take us."

"Sure," I say, then exit the room. I lean against the wall, impressed. Her car, which means she has a driver. I also have a driver, but I never pictured April as the type. I guess there's a lot about her I don't know.

When she comes out, she's wearing a jacket and dark skinny jeans instead of the getup she had on moments ago. I stand up straight and follow her lead out of the theater, keeping pace while a familiar silence settles between us.

Once we're in the car, she tells the driver where to go and gets comfortable in the back seat. She sets her bags down on the floor and adjusts the way she's sitting, and I watch her. I don't even try to hide the fact that I'm watching her, and I'm not sure why. She catches my gaze, but doesn't say a word. Instead, she pauses for a moment before directing her attention out the window.

She must know why I invited her over. She's the furthest thing from stupid, and I can sense a certain type of energy wafting from her. It's not an ignorant, excited kind, either. She's aware that something is about to come to a head, just like I am.

When we get to my hotel room, she looks around with appreciation. Had it been ten years ago, both of us would've been blown away by the setup. It's a huge space, bigger than three of her old studio apartments, with all the amenities. But now, both of us know money. I always stay in places like this when I travel, so it's not otherworldly or immaculate to me. I can tell by the look on her face that she's used to such lavish things, too.

I chuckle silently to myself, shoulders bouncing once. I never expected I'd be able to say that for either of us.

She sits down on a chair with her purse on her lap, shoes and coat still on. After I shed my suit jacket and my expensive loafers, I feel undressed.

"You can make yourself comfortable," I say.

She's tensed. I don't know what, but something has changed within her. There's shadows behind her eyes, a tightness in her jaw that wasn't there before.

"I'm fine," she says. The color has drained from her face, but I don't ask why.

I sit in the chair across from hers, a coffee table between us.

"Do you want a drink, or something?" I ask.

Relief floods her eyes, and I feel the same sensation spread throughout my chest. "If you have wine, that'd be great," she says.

"White, I'm assuming," I say, catching her eye.

She can't help but smile, just slightly. "Yes," she says.

I pour us each a glass from the mini-bar and hand one to her. As she takes the stem, our fingers touch just slightly and I do everything in my power to ignore the tingling surge that follows.

As I take a small sip from my glass, she downs hers in one gulp.

"Oh," I say. "Alright, then."

"Sorry," she breathes, and when she leans forward to set the glass on a coaster, her purse falls from her lap and the contents spills onto the coffee table. "Oh, shit," she curses, gathering her belongings clumsily.

Some have scattered to my side, so I help her. I hand over a tube of lipstick, a wrapped tampon, and a tiny electric blue device that I only realize the use for when her face turns a brilliant shade of red.

"Oh, god," she says, snatching it from me and burying it deep within her bag. "I am so sorry. Oh, my god." She closes her eyes and shakes her head. "I should go. You know what? I shouldn't be here, I should go…"

"No, please stay," I say.

I don't want her to leave. Right now, though I'm nervous about the conversation I know needs to be had, I'm soothed by her presence. Even though she's anxious and has even started to sweat, I'm calmer than I've been in a while.

"I'm sorry you had to see that," she says, hands trembling as she sets her bag on the ground.

"You upgraded, I see," I say, and I don't know what possesses me to say what I'm thinking. But after I do, I don't regret it. "Much smaller. More portable."

Her eyes glint, and something begins to flow between us that hadn't last night, hadn't even moments ago. "Well," she says, still fumbling for words. "I never know when I might need it."

"Don't you have a man for that?" I ask, eyebrows tilted towards one another. I'm testing her boundaries, though I already know them.

"He's…" she trails off, wondering whether or not to finish. But then, the glass of wine she slugged must speak louder than her conscience. "He's not exactly the most skilled," she finishes. "With his mouth."

A searing, hot lightning bolt bursts through my body, ending at my fingertips and toes. My hair stands on end, nerves lit on fire. Suddenly, I'm inundated with the memory of going down on her as she moaned and keened, pulled at my hair, came so hard her hips shook.

Fuck. I can't think about that. I haven't thought about that for years - the way she tasted, the way she responded to every little touch. There's no way those thoughts can sneak in now, not while she's sitting right across from me.

"That's unfortunate," I say.

She kicks her ankle boots off. Underneath, she's wearing mismatched socks, and I find it impossibly endearing.

She clears her throat and picks up her empty glass. "Is there more?" she asks.

"Of course," I answer, getting up for a refill. When I return, I bring the whole bottle with me.

By the time I start in on what I brought her here for, both bottles of red and white are drained. April's face is flushed slightly, and my body feels looser. She's shed her coat, draped it over the back of her chair, and is resting sideways in it - knees slung over the arm.

I center my eyes on her and know I have to say it. I won't paint over it, won't let this night pass without taking the rose-colored glasses off.

"You know you almost killed me?" I say, out of the blue, interrupting a silence with no need to be filled. We'd just finished talking about New York bagels compared to everywhere else's.

Her eyes are confused for a moment, but then she realizes. Her facial expression changes dramatically, shifting to sick acceptance.

"You just shoved me off to the side," I say, waving my arm for emphasis. "Brushed me off like I meant nothing to you for that whole year. After we spent all that time getting _so_ close, you just… I meant nothing to do. A phone call. After weeks of ignoring me. Ignoring the _fuck_ out of me, you just let me go. Just like that, dropped me." I pause for a moment, and her lips part. "I thought I was gonna fucking die. I guess I kind of forgot how to live without you." The last part is an admittance I've never said aloud, maybe never even realized until this moment. "And you didn't care," I say, venom reappearing. "You didn't give a shit. You went on headlining your shows like I never meant shit to you." I narrow my eyes and she looks as if I've physically stabbed her. "Do you know how much that's… _killed_ me over the past ten years?" I shake my head. "Because I thought… I thought we were something, you know? Fuck, babe, I thought we were gonna get married someday."

I catch the term of endearment only after it slips out of my tipsy lips. I don't do anything to take it back, it's too late.

"And you took it," I continue, even though my tongue feels two sizes too big. "You took that from me, without even asking. I was part of us, too. And you just… took it. Gone. Without consulting me, you took my best friend and girlfriend away with one phone call."

My eyes sting, and I grit my teeth. The last thing I want to do is cry, but a tear slips out and rolls down my cheek anyway. Seeing it, April bolts from her chair and is on her knees at the foot of mine in seconds flat. She wipes the tear and lets her hand linger, and I don't flinch away from it. I let myself stare into her eyes - those moss greens that hold so much feeling - and my chest splinters.

"I know I hurt you," she says, her words heavy and sodden. "It killed me, too. It killed me to know what I did. And I own it. I'm not making excuses for making you feel like I did." She presses both hands to her heart, and her eyes grow glassy, too. "I need you to know how sorry I am. Jackson, I am so sorry."

I nod slightly, chin trembling as I keep my eyes on her. I don't respond with words. I don't think I have to.

"But I need you to know why," she says, wavering. "Why I did what I did."

I nod again, and she won't meet my eyes. She sinks lower onto her knees, taking one of my hands with both of hers. When she speaks, her voice is barely a peep. I strain to hear it.

"I had a miscarriage," she whispers. When she says the words, they seem to take the life from her. As she lifts her gaze, her eyes are empty and hollow. "I was pregnant," she continues, then wets her lips as the tears begin. "And I killed our baby."


	11. Chapter 11

**APRIL**

When I used to picture mine and Jackson's family, it began with a big yard. I imagined us not living in the city, but in the suburbs somewhere with a lot of land, where our kids could run and play and grow up the way I did. I never pictured them confined on a strip of grass outside an apartment complex. No, my vision was nothing like that.

When we daydreamed about our potential family, I'd see myself standing on the back porch, overlooking the sight of Jackson and our first child while I rested my hand on my belly that was swollen with our next. I saw myself having a handful of kids with Jackson, not stopping at just two. We'd agreed on three once, but then came the thought of more. With him, I wanted to bring as much life into the world as possible.

Our first would be a girl, daddy's little girl. With our freckles, green eyes, and Jackson's bouncy, voluminous curls. When I closed my eyes, I could practically see the two of them playing in the yard together, her body flying high in the air as he tossed her with grace. Her laughter sounding through the air like the prettiest melody.

And next would come a little boy. Toddling after his sister on unsteady legs as Jackson guided his back, never letting him fall. My chest would expand as I thought of Jackson as a father - he'd be the best. He'd teach our kids respect, honesty, perseverance, and most importantly, how to have fun. And how to love as fiercely as he did.

When I pictured our family, I never pictured loss playing a role. But since that's how it both began and ended, I could never see past it. My body expelled his first child, so I never deserved to carry a second.

As these thoughts race through my mind, Jackson's face is placid. Unreadable to the point of uneasiness; I can't pick anything up from his expression even as I search his features for clues. His eyes are glazed, jaw relaxed, mind elsewhere. I wonder where he's gone, and if he's taken me and the idea of our lost baby with him there.

"I'm sorry," I whisper again, shaking my head and staring at the floor. I'm still crouched in front of him, and I don't see a reason to move. I owe him so much; I'm at his mercy. This position feels entirely fitting.

I almost want him to yell, scream and get mad, lash out for what I did to him. Cut him out of my life, clean as if with a hot blade, and pretended we never loved each other. I knew it was wrong as I did it, but I still went through with it.

He's right, I took away our relationship without consulting him. I made it a one-man job, when in reality it was always two. That was how we worked - we were two trees with branches woven together at the top, and I sawed us down.

I crave the consequences, but with every passing moment he grows more sullen. His shoulders cave in towards each other, and his head hangs lower. It seems like he's collapsing without much say in the matter, but I'll do anything to hold him up.

When he meets my eyes, a tear leaks out of his silently and melts against his skin. We don't break eye contact, and I gasp softly as the heat, static, and memories pass between our gazes.

"That was why?" he asks, wetting his lips after he speaks. "This whole time, that was the reason why?"

I nod slightly, wondering what he'll say next. He'll blame me, condemn me, be furious with me for keeping this secret for so long. For using it as the crowbar to pry us apart. He'll use it as ammunition, and I'll let him.

"Why didn't you tell me?" he continues.

He sounds so broken. It's worse than anger; his sadness cuts deep and wedges itself between my ribs.

"I felt like I couldn't," I say, voice a whimper, a plea. "It was my fault. I deserved to take that pain, alone. I couldn't be enough for you, I wasn't enough." Now, I'm crying, too. "I'm not. I killed our baby."

I stay there on the floor, body racking with sobs, and feel his hands on either side of my face. "But there was a reason," he says. "A reason for everything. A reason for all this. It wasn't out of nowhere, it wasn't because you never loved me."

"I killed our baby," I say, with emphasis. "It was my fault. I put myself under all that stress when I first moved here and that's what did it. I just… was bleeding, all that blood, and I did that. Our little baby. Our innocent, little baby."

I stop making sound, that's how hard I'm crying. His thumbs swipe at my tears, but it does nothing to stop the flow.

"Come here," he says, and in one swift motion he lifts me from the floor and onto his lap. Without hesitating, I wrap my arms around his shoulders and bury my face in his neck, crying against his skin and letting him hold me.

Nothing has felt this good for so long. I barely remembered what it felt like to be in someone else's arms and be present. Like they want me there, like I'm right where I'm supposed to be.

"I'm sorry," I sob. "I'm so, so sorry. I did this, it's all my fault. I'm a baby killer, and I almost broke you. Everything I do is wrong, and I don't deserve this, I don't deserve what you're doing for me, and I never deserved you."

I try to pull away, distance myself from him because what he's giving me is too much. I can't accept it. I did something horrible, and all he's doing is being kind in return.

This is the Jackson I once knew. The one who would pull me closer as I weakly fought, because he knew that comfort was what I needed. And that's what he does now. He doesn't let me pull away; he keeps a good hold and strokes the back of my head, soothing me with soft shushing sounds.

"You're not a baby killer," he says, voice low and gentle. "Don't say that. Please, don't say that."

"But you don't know!" I say, spit gathering at the corners of my mouth as I lift my head to look into his eyes. "Maybe there was something I could've done. I was working too hard. Maybe it was-"

"But you can't change it now," he says, firmly, eyebrows set strong. "So, you have to stop punishing yourself."

"But I punished you," I whimper. "And I am so sorry."

He holds my face in his hands again, and we spend a long moment staring into each other's eyes. Then, before I can coherently process what's happening, he's kissing me. And I'm kissing him. I don't know who starts it, but we both finish it.

As he holds my face, I grip the sides of his neck and sigh into his mouth, parting my lips to let his tongue inside. He explores every divot, every corner that he already knows so well, and swipes over my lower lip slowly as I come up for air.

We linger for a moment with our lips ghosting over one another before diving into another kiss - this one more desperate, more forceful, mouths moving against each other with a primal need for something we can't have. Or at least, shouldn't have.

Beneath the fine layer of his expensive cologne, he smells the same. When I tilt his jaw up and can kiss his neck, the soft skin of his throat tastes like I remember, and my tongue glides over it with ease. He kneads the skin of my lower back as I suck gently on his Adam's apple, releasing a moan that I feel more than I hear.

"Mm," he groans, hands trailing purposefully down my sides to anchor on my hips. His thumbs dig in to the front of the bones as I find the top button of his shirt and pop it open with my thumb and first finger.

I'm lit on fire. That's the only way to describe this, I'm burning alive.

"Let me go down on you," he mumbles, lips against mine.

I tremble at the thought alone. Stupid to turn him down, I unbutton my jeans hurriedly and fumble with the zipper, rushed by his request. "Yes," I say, welcoming the insistent throbbing between my legs for the first time in a while. I wriggle out of my jeans and he gets up from the chair, letting me take his place. "As long as I get to do you next," I say.

"Please, god," he mumbles, then sinks to his knees to pull my hips to the edge of the chair.

Whereas our movements had been quick just moments ago, now they're slow. Instead of ripping my dark purple panties off, he rubs his nose against my lower abdomen and pulls the tiny bow between his teeth to pluck at it. His hand joins soon, thumb rubbing between my lips, and I melt further back into the cushion.

"How long's it been, baby?" he husks.

"Too long," I say, heart fluttering. "I need you to… I need you to…"

"Don't worry," he says, pressing an errant kiss to my inner thigh. "Lay back."

When my underwear come off, his breath hits my core and I tighten because of it. I'm not fully shaved like I once was, and I can't help but wonder if he minds. I'm older now, complete baldness doesn't appeal to me anymore, but I keep it neatly trimmed. I get my answer when he runs his fingers through the dusting of hair, tongue following.

"Shit," I curse, eyes rolling back as he spreads my legs further and then, my outer lips.

I want him to talk dirty, but I don't know how to ask. I let the thought slip away as my back arches, hips grinding against his mouth as he opens it wider. When he pulls away for a moment, he drags his fingers over my center and plunges two inside, which steals the breath from me.

"Shit," he hisses, kissing above where his fingers thrust in and out. "Look at that pink, perfect, tight little pussy," he says, voice thick with arousal.

My eyelashes flutter. I didn't have to wait for long.

"Do you like that?" he asks. "Do you like it when I fuck you with my fingers? Huh? Does that feel good, baby?"

"So good," I whine, slipping further down the chair so my ass hangs all the way off. He pulls me to the floor and I lie on my back, spread eagle before him, still wearing my shirt.

"He could never make you feel like this," Jackson whispers, pushing deeper.

I'm glad he didn't say his name - I've been trying not to think of Andrew, and comparisons hadn't so much as crossed my mind. But in the end, he's right. Andrew won't get near my vagina with his mouth.

"Do you want my tongue inside you?" Jackson says, using his thumb to rub soft circles on my clit. I lift my hips into the air, but he shoves them back down.

"Yes, please, god," I moan, and he pries my thighs apart. With a slick sound, he pulls his fingers from my body and reaches toward my face, dipping his thumb into my mouth. I suck on it, staring headily into his eyes, and taste myself.

"Tell me what you want, baby," he says, hands back on my legs, poised to devour me.

"I want you to - oh," I moan, as he licks me upwards with a wide, flat tongue, again and again. He closes his eyes like he's never tasted anything so good, and nuzzles his nose against the patch of hair.

"You taste so good," he murmurs, pulling away with a 'pop' before making his tongue rigid and pushing it inside me again, as deep as he can.

"Oh god, oh god, oh god," I whimper, reaching to grab onto his ears - his hair is too short to get a hold on. "Keep licking me, right there, oh god, right there!"

He sucks my clit between his lips, then lets it go, keeping the rhythm quick and forceful. When I come, it's not a quiet, gentle ordeal. Instead, I press my thighs in and squeeze his head between them, unable to understand the words coming out of my mouth as he doesn't stop until I can barely breathe.

When he kisses the inside of my knee, I know he's proud of what he's done. Instead of worrying about cleaning myself up or putting my underwear on, I get to my knees and push Jackson down on the chair I'd once been in. Without stripping him yet, I run my hands over the incredible bulge between his legs, licking my lips as I do.

"How long has it been for _you_?" I ask, working on undoing his pants.

"More than three years," he admits, and the groan he emits when I wrap my hand around him tells me it's the truth. "She won't… Marisa won't…"

"Don't say her name," I say. "I want you thinking about me."

Punctuating my sentence, I take the head of his penis in my mouth and apply gentle, rhythmic suction. When I pull away, I spit on the shaft - something he asked me to do years ago that I never did - and use it as lube.

"Fuck," he moans, one hand behind his head and the other on the base of mine. "Yes, baby girl. Fuck yes."

I try and take him deeper than I ever did. When the tip hits the back of my throat, I tell myself to ignore my gag reflex and watering eyes and push it further. I feel his eyes on me, already knowing the way they look, as he slides past my uvula.

"Jesus Christ, babe," he says, hips jolting. "You've gotten so… fuck!"

A string of saliva hangs between the tip and my lips when I pull it out of my mouth, and I kiss the vein I know very well. I wipe the spit off my face and go back for more, toying with his tightening balls while pressing loud, sensual kisses along the shaft.

"I swear, you're gonna make me come," he says, as I use my hand to start pumping. Hearing that, I cover him with my mouth again and don't move away as he orgasms, come shooting inside my mouth and dripping down my throat. I swallow all that I can, then come up for air once he's spent. He sits for a moment, softening, before yanking me up to rest on his lap.

With both our lower halves bare, the proximity is hard to ignore. But I know, and he knows, that we aren't going all the way tonight. We shouldn't have what all done what we did, but even so, he kisses me while pushing the remnants of his come inside my lips with his thumbs, mixing with our combined saliva. It's not pretty or classy, but it's incredibly intimate and sexual, all of these bodily fluids shared between us.

I'm in a higher state of arousal than I've been in for years.

I hold his face between my hands and try to catch my breath as my mind spins at high speed. Andrew is at home, waiting for me. And I just traded oral sex with Jackson, who now knows about the miscarriage. Everything is out in the open, at least everything from our past. With the future, comes many more messes.

"We shouldn't have…" I whisper, but make no move to stand. I'm still on his lap, naked from the waist down. "You have her, I have him…"

"I know," he says, shadows encroaching in on his eyes.

"And I love him," I say, eyes wide and convincing. "This was wrong."

"I know, I love her, too," Jackson says. "I do."

"But you," I say, standing up and finding my underwear. "And us."

"I know," he says again.

"I'm not a cheater," I say.

"I'm not, either," he says.

I button my jeans and stand up straight, still able to taste him on my tongue. "But it happened."

"We can pretend it didn't," he says. "They never have to know. We have history, we had so much unfinished business, but it's over now. We sealed it up. You told me the secret you were keeping, I told you how much it hurt me, we got each other off. It was the end of it, you know, like a final note. There doesn't have to be any strings."

"Right," I say, letting myself believe what he's saying. "That makes sense. It doesn't necessarily mean we still have feelings, but we had to get that out. We were rehashing the past, so it only made sense. Right?"

"Exactly," he says, as I slip into my shoes.

I put my coat on and grab my purse, telling myself I need to get home. That I want to get home, home to Andrew and my luxury apartment where he'll be waiting. Where he's probably been waiting for a while now.

"I don't want to lose you again," I say, lingering by the door. He follows me, wearing those stained dress pants and a halfway-unbuttoned shirt. "I want us to be friends."

"Of course we're friends," he says.

"We still have a lot to talk about," I say. "I want you to know everything. I don't want to keep things from you anymore."

"Okay," he nods.

I know we must be thinking the same thing. I'm based here, while he's still back in the midwest. How is a friendship supposed to work with so much distance in between?

"I'd love to take you out to dinner," I say. "Marisa, too. You should fly her out, and Andrew and I will take you to our favorite place."

He raises his eyebrows, dubious. "A double date?"

"You could call it that," I say. "It's what friends do, don't they?"

"I suppose so."

"Would you be interested?" I ask. "I'm sure Andrew would want to."

"I think that sounds great," he says. "I'll call Missy and see what she thinks."

I quirk one eyebrow. "Missy?" I ask.

"That's her… that's what I call her," he says.

I rest my hand on the cool doorknob. "Sounds like a name for a baby," I say. "Or a dog."

He scoffs and rolls his eyes. "You guys are practically best friends already," he says. "I'll make sure to tell her you hate her nickname."

"I never said I hated it," I say, hand off the door as I step closer to him.

"'Andy' is no better," Jackson says.

"You don't know I call him that," I say.

"Of course you do," he replies, chuckling. I can't help but join in. "And you probably need to get home to him."

Reality comes coursing back all over again. If he hadn't have said that, I would've suggested we go out for a drink. But alas, it's past midnight and I was expected home hours ago.

"I do," I say, then rest a flat hand on Jackson's chest. "I… um, I had a nice night with you."

"So did I," he says.

"Can we hug?" I ask.

"Friends hug each other," he says.

I melt against his chest in a warm embrace, and he locks his arms around my shoulders as he rubs my back. I pull away even though I don't want to, and leave with a small wave thrown over my shoulder.

I take a cab home and find the lights off in the apartment when I get there. I tiptoe through the house, setting my stuff down and hanging my coat, then jump in the shower before joining Andrew in bed. I'm sure I smell like sex, and that's not a conversation I need to have with him. It happened, we took care of it, and it won't happen again. It's much simpler than he would make it out to be.

When I get out, I fluff my wet hair and slip into pajamas before crawling into bed. I brushed my teeth and put moisturizer on, so if I smelled like Jackson in the slightest, it's gone now.

"Finally," Andrew says, surprising me.

I hold my heart as I lie next to him. "I thought you were asleep," I say.

"I couldn't, while I was wondering where you were off to," he grumbles. "I called and texted, you couldn't even answer? I thought you were dead somewhere."

"Andy," I say, lying on my back. "Don't say that."

"When you don't answer my damn texts, that's what I think," he says. "This is Manhattan, April. I need to know where you are at night. Bad shit happens, and you know that."

"Of course I know that," I say. "I was with the cast. I was safe. It was the last performance, we were celebrating."

"So, that's why your breath smells like a bar?"

I cover my mouth with one hand, shocked he can still smell it. I'd considered brushing my teeth twice, but thought that was overkill. Now, I realize I should've.

"We were drinking," I say, swallowing hard.

"You never go out after the show," he says, and it's true. I usually turn down my friends; I'm not much of a partier.

"Well, tonight was the last one," I say, turning onto my opposite side. "I thought it was fitting."

"Guess you did," he mutters, and pulls the covers.

I pull them back and close my eyes. Sleep doesn't come, not even close, because I can't stop thinking about what Jackson and I did. I had planned on broaching the topic of the double date to Andrew tonight, but know now that it's not the right time. He's angry with me, and I don't want to set myself up for failure.

The next morning, I stay in bed while Andrew gets ready to go to a voice class. He wakes me up with the sound of his morning routine, and I lie there and watch him get ready with the covers pulled to my chin.

"Have a good day," I say.

He glances back. "Yeah, you too," he says.

"What time will you be home?"

He shrugs. "Dinner time."

"Do you want me to make something special?" I ask.

"I don't know," he says.

"Well, maybe I'll surprise you," I say. "We should talk, too. I know you're still mad."

He should be much angrier than he is, but I keep that to myself.

"Yeah, we do need to talk," he says, then walks over to plant a kiss on my forehead. "See you later."

I spend all day wondering what Jackson is up to in the city, and fight the urge to see him again. If we get together so soon after what happened, I know for a fact it'll only end up happening again. And it can't. I don't like lying in general, or lying to Andrew, so I shouldn't put myself in a position where I have to.

When Andrew comes home, I'm in the process of putting the finishing touches on the table as he walks through the door. "Smells good," he says.

"Your favorite," I say. "Lasagna."

The kissing-up isn't necessarily intentional, but it doesn't hurt.

When we sit down to eat, I give him a small smile and ask him how his day was. We trade benign conversation, but when he picks up a fork and sighs I know the big topic is coming.

"You scared me last night," he says. "And you don't even care."

"Andy," I say, eyebrows lowering. "Don't say that. Of course I care."

"Then why didn't you call or text me back?" he asks. "I don't think that's too much to ask. We're in a serious relationship, April. It's called being considerate."

"I am considerate," I say. "Just not last night. Don't make it into this whole huge thing just because I made a mistake."

A mistake, indeed.

"I know, I…" He sighs, exasperated. "I know you're considerate. I didn't mean that. You're great, and I love you. But sometimes, you think about yourself before other people. All it would've taken was a text."

His words sit with me for a moment, simmering at the surface before drifting lower. Am I selfish? Was keeping the secret from Jackson all those years an example of that? I know now it wasn't worth it. I could've told him, and our lives would've played out differently, but we would've been together. He doesn't think it's my fault, and he wouldn't have then, either. Hindsight is always 20/20.

"I'm sorry," I say, because I don't want a fight. I want to smooth this over, passively. I admit I'm wrong to avoid confrontation.

"Thank you," he says.

There's still tension in the air, but it'll dissipate. Even so, I wait to ask about the double date. It's still not the right time.

That night in bed, I'm on top of him as we make out heavily. It's not unusual that we'll find ourselves in this position, with me taking charge. Being dominant doesn't turn me on necessarily, but if I need to do it to make things happen, I will.

"Honey," I whisper, kissing his jaw as my fingers weave through his hair. "Can you do something for me?"

"Mm," he moans, holding tight to my back. "Sure."

I dismount, lifting one knee over him to sit against the headboard with them bent. "Can you try going down on me?" I ask.

He looks at me, lips puffy, shocked expression on his face. "Last time-"

"I know," I say gently, reaching out to stroke his cheek. "But that was a long time ago, and I can teach you. Learning never hurt."

He swallows; I watch his Adam's apple tremble. He almost seems scared of the prospect, but I pay no mind. My core is throbbing with need, pulsating with desire after getting a taste of what Jackson gave me. I figure, if I can get that from Andrew, I won't want Jackson sexually anymore and we can be friends, like we agreed.

"It's pretty simple," I say. "Can you please try?"

"Okay," he says nervously, and I smile with approval as I settle on my back and spread my legs further. He situates himself between my thighs, and I run my fingers over my outer lips to warm up.

"It's not gonna bite," I giggle, tracing myself. "Start off with kisses. Slow, long…" I let my head fall back to hit the pillow as I imagine Jackson's mouth. "Wet."

Andrew does as I say, but his mouth stays pinched and rigid as he pecks my smoldering skin. I lift my hips from the mattress and adjust a bit, hoping he'll understand without words that I need him to get more into it. But he doesn't. He just keeps doing what he started with - the kisses aren't passionate at all.

"Open your mouth," I say. "Use your tongue."

"My tongue?" he asks. "Inside you?"

"Uh-huh," I say, craning my neck to watch. I use my hand to pull the skin upward, exposing myself further.

He gulps again, visibly intimidated. His tongue darts from his mouth to land between my lips, and I barely feel it at all. I let out a puff of air, fed up with him having no clue how to pleasure a woman, and reach down there myself.

"Do you know what a clitoris is?" I ask, point blank.

He looks at me, dumbfounded. "Uh, yeah."

"I'm not sure you do," I say. "Or else you'd be a little more concentrated on finding it."

"Well, are you gonna help me?"

I stare at him, long and hard. Instead of spitting back something sarcastic, I decide on a lesson. "You can't see mine," I say. "At least not right now. You can, when it gets swollen from…" I clear my throat. "Never mind that. You just can't see it right now. It's beneath a little hood, which you should pull back, then go to town on it. I can take it. I want it. You can be rough with me."

His fingers dance on my inner thighs. "But am I gonna hurt you?"

"No, Andrew," I say.

He inches two fingers inside me, but just barely. They disappear only to the first knuckle, and he swishes them around like he's flushing me out instead of pleasuring me.

I shake my head, unable to take it anymore. "You know what, never mind," I say.

"I'm sorry," he says. "I told you I'm not good at it, sweetheart, it's just… I don't know." He sits up a bit. "How do you know so much about oral sex, anyway? You know, if I was your first."

My eyes widen, and I hope he doesn't notice. That was something I told him years ago, when we'd first slept together. I don't know why I said it, it wasn't something that mattered to him, but since then he's held onto that fact like a life raft.

"Research," I say. "Maybe you should try it."

"Your body's just so confusing to me," he says, sounding a bit whiny.

"Yeah," I say. "I know."

I snap my knees together and pull my underwear on, telling him without words that we won't be going any further.

"Can I make it up to you?" he asks, propping himself up on an elbow.

I look over, arms crossed to rest atop my stomach as an idea appears. "Actually," I say. "You can."

…

On the night we're set to take Jackson and Marisa out to Marea, our favorite Italian restaurant, my hands won't stop sweating. As I zip myself into my low-backed black dress, I can't stop thinking about what a horrible idea this was. Jackson and Andrew in the same room? What am I, a masochist? I must be clinically insane.

"I'm looking forward to meeting your friend," Andrew says, standing in the hall mirror as he adjusts his tie. He always insists on doing it himself, never accepting my offers to help. Tying Jackson's tie was always something I enjoyed doing, knowing he needed that extra bit of help and depended on me for it. It was sweet.

"Yeah," I say. "Should be fun."

"What're you wearing?" he asks.

I stand in front of the mirror in the bedroom, scrutinizing what I picked. My black dress has thin straps and a dip in the chest to show the J necklace in the open space between my breasts. It's a bit much for a dinner out, but I can't say I don't have ulterior motives in choosing it.

"This," I say, stepping into the hallway after putting on my black heels. "You like it?"

He glances my way and nods. "Pretty," he says.

I frown a bit and touch my hair that I curled and tied up meticulously for the occasion. I think of my makeup, that I spent at least a full hour on. And all I get is a 'pretty,' thrown over the shoulder.

"Thanks," I grumble.

In the back seat of the car on the way to Marea, Andrew takes my hand. I watch as we pass through the lit-up city and wonder how tonight will go. The best-case scenario is that it's a dinner full of surface interactions and fake compliments, and I can handle that. I'm used to that. Anything else, though, I can't predict.

When we pull up, the driver helps me out and Andrew takes my arm as we walk inside. Reservations for this place take up to three months to secure, and I got them overnight. It's a perk of having pull in the city.

When we walk inside, Jackson and who must be Marisa are standing off to the side. She's looking at her manicure, and he's watching the door. So, when Andrew and I come in, Jackson's face lights up instantly as he walks toward us.

"You're early," I tell him, then go in for a casual kiss on either cheek.

Andrew watches us with intensity. Marisa lingers behind like she couldn't care less.

"You're late," Jackson says, winking at me. "You look phenomenal, April."

I don't miss the way his eyes graze down my body, and neither does Andrew as he clears his throat. "I'm Andrew," he says, extending one hand. "April's boyfriend. You must be Jackson."

"That I am," Jackson says, shaking Andrew's hand firmly. He looks over his shoulder to Marisa who's still examining her nails. "Missy, come over here," he says.

She finally looks up. Her eyes flash as she realizes what she's missed.

"Oh gosh, excuse me," she says, obviously flustered. "I'm sorry."

"Marisa, this is April," Jackson says.

"Oh, I know," she says, and takes my hand. Hers is clammy in my grip, but I pretend not to notice. "You were wonderful in _Wicked_. The perfect Glinda. I loved you."

My smile grows. "Oh, thank you," I say. "Marisa, this is my boyfriend, Andrew."

"Nice to meet you," she says. "Thank you both for inviting us out."

Nodding, I walk to the host stand. "Kepner," I say. "Reservation for four."

"Of course. Right this way, Ms. Kepner," he says, and leads us to a quiet area of the dining room.

"Right this way, Ms. Kepner," Jackson echoes, nudging me.

I roll my eyes and fight a smirk as we find our table. I sit across from Jackson and next to Andrew, and the waiter brings us a bottle of very expensive red wine.

"Do you have white?" Jackson mutters, under his breath, to the man.

"You don't like white," Marisa comments.

Jackson's eyes dart over to her, but he doesn't respond.

"I'll bring that out right away, sir," the waiter says, and disappears.

"So, Andrew," Jackson says. "What do you do?"

I tune out his answer, whatever it might be. Instead, I focus on the way that Jackson and Marisa look paired together. She's almost as tall as him, with a lanky, graceful frame. Her eyes are big and her teeth are bigger, I bet that smile is a force to be reckoned with. Her nails are perfectly done, maroon and adorned with sparkling jewels in the lower corner of each one. Mine are painted a subtle blush.

My eyes roam to Jackson, who's listening to my boyfriend politely and nodding along. He looks interested, and I remind myself that he's a lawyer. He gets paid to put up a front. But I regret the thought as soon as it comes across, scolding myself for putting down the person who I came here with. I shouldn't be against him, I should be for him.

The waiter comes back while Andrew is still talking and sets the bottle down. Without interrupting the flow of conversation, Jackson picks it up and fills my goblet halfway. Marisa watches him intensely.

When her gaze meets mine, I don't match her. I shift to look at Andrew, pretending to hear him, and smile when I'm supposed to. When the topic of conversation switches, Marisa doesn't bring up what she saw.

"So, how'd you two meet?" I ask Marisa, after the food arrives.

She glances at Jackson with warmth on her face. "We work at the same firm," she says. "We started around the same time, but now he's climbing his way up the ladder. Right, sweetie?" She looks at me, smile much too sweet. "He's been working on some huge cases, getting attention from the media. But you know all about that, right April?"

I don't think she means it in a snide way, but I can't help but interpret it as such.

"I do," I say.

"So, how long have you been an actress?" she asks. "I read your bio that you started at a small school in Ohio."

"I don't know if you'd call it small," I say. "Kenyon is reputable. It brought me to Chicago, where I starred in _White Christmas_ at the Chicago Theater."

"Oh, yeah," Marisa says. "Jackson said that."

"Well, he'd know," I add.

Something strange flits across her face, but it disappears quickly. A bout of confusion, of questioning. I'm not sure where it came from.

"And I moved to Manhattan from Chicago," I say. "About ten years ago. It was one of the toughest things I've ever done."

"Do you ever regret moving?" Marisa asks.

I'm surprised by the question; it's not one I've ever been asked. It takes me back, makes me think, forces me to see my life in a third-person point of view. Do I regret coming here? Turning my life upside-down? Abandoning everything I ever knew and creating a whole new persona?

"Of course she doesn't," Andrew answers, grinning. "If she wouldn't have made it here, she would've never met me."

Jackson makes a small sound that only I hear. He nudges my foot under the table, but I ignore it.

"Even though I'd lived here for a few years by the time I met him, Andrew taught me a lot about the city," I say.

He leans closer, taking my hand and entwining our fingers. "Taught you about a lot of things," he murmurs, then presses his lips against my hair to speak. "Your first for everything."

I lift my shoulder and pull away from him, laughing nervously for our company. "Honey," I say, voice tight. "Come on. Stop."

I look across the table and see Jackson's eyebrows raised, a challenging expression resting on his face. He's confident in whatever he's thinking, whatever he's about to say. "Her first for everything?" he asks.

I clear my throat and bite my lower lip, hard. "So, Marisa, how long have you lived in Chicago?"

Her eyes shift between the two men before tentatively answering. "Oh, I grew up in-"

"That's where you're wrong," Jackson says, voice smooth as silk. "Funny enough."

Andrew's eyes narrow. "Excuse me?" he says.

"What you're telling me is that you're the first and only person April has been with?" Jackson asks.

"That's what I said," Andrew replies. "I'm her only partner."

"Why are we talking about this at dinner?" I ask. "It's totally inappropriate."

"So, you're saying that I wasn't the one to take her virginity when she lived in Chicago? Above my family's deli?"

My heart stops. I place my hands flat on the table, but with more force than I intended so the glassware shakes and clinks together. "Leave it alone, Jackson," I say, jaw clenched.

Andrew's eyes burn, and so do Marisa's. I can feel the lid about to blow off this gathering.

"Jackson, what are you talking about?" Marisa asks. "You said you didn't know her. You said you met her backstage and she was so lovely, you wanted me to meet her, too. You… you two don't have history. You didn't say… you don't. You don't know her."

Andrew turns to me. "Say he's bullshitting," he says. "Did you lie? Why would you? That's so stupid, April. Did you lie to me?"

My mouth gapes, but no sound comes out. Jackson is both smug and worried across the table, and I want nothing more than to smack him. He aired out our past because he wanted to win the pissing contest, and I hope he's happy. Because he definitely won.

"Jesus Christ," Andrew says, and pushes his chair out roughly from the table.

"Andy, come on," I say, swiveling to call after him. "Come on. Don't leave!"

"I can't believe you," Marisa says, gathering her purse and getting up in the same manner Andrew did. "I'm going back to the hotel. You can get a different room."

"Missy…" Jackson says, eyeroll in his voice.

I stand up to follow Andrew, but Jackson takes my elbow. A shockwave pulses through my body beginning where he's touched me.

"I'm sorry," he says.

I shake my head. "That was awful of you," I say. "You talked about me like I was a piece of meat. You two competing like I'm a…" I huff. "I don't know. But..." I gently pull my arm out of his grasp. "I have to go."

"April," he calls.

I turn around and look at him. "You shouldn't be standing here talking to me. Marisa wants you to follow her."

"And Andrew wants you to follow him," he chides.

I take a deep breath, and Jackson's eyes gravitate to my chest as it rises. "You're right," I say. "And that's what I'm gonna do. Because it's the right thing." I press my lips tight together. "It's the right thing to do."

"But do you want to?" he asks.

"Do _you_?" I retort.

We spend a moment with charged energy between us, not saying a word. We don't need to. We already know the other's answer.

"Once things calm down, I'll call you," I say.

He nods, then taps his chest where the J pendant rests on mine. "You kept it on," he says, and we both nod. Then, he says, "You know where I stay. Call me."

I find the car and get into the back seat, expecting icy silence from Andrew. But instead, as soon as we start to move, he speaks up while still facing the window.

"That necklace you wear," he says. "It doesn't stand for 'joy' at all, does it? It's for him. It's always been for him."

I don't respond. I don't have to.

"Who do you really wanna be with, April?" he asks, finally turning to look at me. His tone is more venomous than I've ever heard it sound. "Me, or him?"


	12. Chapter 12

**JACKSON**

I made it to the car before Marisa told the driver to leave, and now we're both sitting in the backseat as we cruise through the city, not saying a word.

The air is charged with tension. The hair on my arms stands on end with the anger exuding from her, but Marisa's wellbeing is the last thing on my mind.

As we drive through Columbus Circle, I center my gaze on the lights out the window and see April clearly in my mind. That dress she wore tonight was mindblowing; the low-cut bust dipping between her modest breasts, subtle enough to put the J necklace on display. That was no accident. I know for a fact that was purposeful.

The back was low, too. I've always been a sucker for her back and all the freckles dotting it. There are 38, exactly. I remember counting one rainy night while she was deeply asleep on her stomach, shirt off, sheets wrapped tight around her legs.

And her neck - her neck was amazing. So long and lithe, open with her hair tied in the updo it was in with little tendrils framing her face. In her entirety, she was a masterpiece. A work of art, and Andrew hadn't even noticed. He didn't touch her all through dinner, not until he got territorial. Then, suddenly, she mattered.

But up until he had to compete for her attention, what he cared about was boasting about himself. I simply can't see how that's possible; with a girl like April at his side, how does he not see her? How is she not his world?

I need to spend more time with her before I leave, but I don't how to make that happen. I'm sure things aren't exactly tame between she and Andrew right now, just like things are rocky between Marisa and me.

Almost as if she read my thoughts, my girlfriend's voice sounds through the air. It's lower than normal and uneven, like she's trying extremely hard to keep her cool.

"You lied," she says, staring ahead at the divider between us and the driver. I'm relieved it's there - I don't want a stranger privy to what will surely become a fight. Our driver at home is used to such interactions, but we don't know this man.

I don't try and defend myself. Said like that, it's true. I did lie. In order to get Marisa to agree on dinner with April and Andrew, I erased our colorful history. I told her that when I went backstage, we hit it off and she was an amazing person. Not exactly a lie, but a painted-over version of the truth.

If I had laid everything out, Marisa never would have agreed to come. And I would've been forced to stay home, too. And there was no way I was going to miss out on spending time with April.

"Yeah," I say. "You're right. And I'm sorry."

She looks at me, hair flipping as she whips her head. "But are you?" she asks. Her jaw is set firm and tight, cheeks bulging with tension. "I don't think you are."

"Missy," I say, tone submissive.

"Don't," she growls.

"She and I are old friends," I say. "Yes, we have a lot of history. Yes, a lot of things have gone down between us that you just wouldn't understand. Yes-"

"That I wouldn't understand?" she snaps. "What's so complicated about it that I just 'wouldn't understand?' Huh, Jackson? What's so special about her that I just wouldn't get?"

I sigh, letting my eyes roll a bit. "That's not how I meant it," I say.

"No, but I want to know," she presses. "Tell me about her, come on. It's obvious you like her, so why don't you talk about her?"

"I'm not doing this with you," I say, shaking my head with a fake smile. "Come on. That's petty."

"You know what's not petty?" she says. "How you were looking at her. All through dinner. Like she… like she was made of fuckin' gold, or something."

"Funny you even noticed," I say. "You were paying more attention to your nails than you were to me. Thanks for taking a second to look up."

"That's not fair," she says. "You know I get uncomfortable around new people."

"Around _my_ people," I say. "With yours, you're fine. But the second I wanna take you anywhere that I wanna go, you shut down and get all hermit. It's embarrassing, Marisa."

"What's embarrassing is that I felt like you two were on the date, not us!" she shrieks. "You got the waiter to serve her favorite wine, you-"

"She turned down the red, I got her white. What's the fuckin' big deal abou that?" I ask, voice rising. "She didn't have a drink. I made sure she did."

"She's a big girl! She can take care of herself. And you'd never do that for me. Oh, god. You _never_ do that for me."

"Because you like what I like," I say. "We like red."

"As far as you know," she says. "Not like you ever ask."

"Okay, Marisa. What kind of wine would you prefer next time we go out?" I spit.

"As if it fucking matters," she says, eyes burning. "You won't remember, anyway."

"Can't remember if you won't tell me," I mutter.

"Tell me about her," Marisa demands again. "I wanna know. Now's your chance to tell me the secrets, no bullshit. I wanna know. I deserve to know. What else have you been keeping from me?"

As her eyes smolder, I can't help but picture the happenings from the other night. April's body tucked between my legs, lips wrapped around my dick as it was halfway down her throat. A shockwave of electricity courses through me - no, there's no way I'm telling Marisa about that.

"Fine," I say. "What do you wanna know?"

She settles further against the seat, getting comfortable for the interrogation. "Were you together?"

I nod.

"How long ago?"

"Eleven years," I say. "When she still lived in Chicago."

"For how long?"

"A year," I say.

"And have you had contact with her since then?"

I shake my head. "No," I say. "We broke up when she left Chicago. It was a clean break. Never spoke."

I'd never dream of telling her the newfound reason as to why our connection was broken. She doesn't need to know about the miscarriage when I've only just found out myself.

"So, the first time you saw her was when you and I went to see _Wicked_?" she asks.

"Yup."

She pauses for a moment, reloading. "You slept with her."

My body bristles as I wonder how she knows about the oral. I'm about to speak up and defend myself when she pipes up again, though.

"When you were together. Obviously, you slept with her."

I shift uncomfortably, but I'm relieved. She's not on my trail about the other night.

"Yeah."

"And how was it?" she asks. "The sex with April."

I narrow my eyes. "Marisa, come on."

"I want to know," she pushes. "No secrets. You agreed. So, tell me. How was the sex? I bet she let you fuck her rough, didn't she? In the way I won't?"

"Jesus," I mumble. "This has to stop. It isn't right."

"I'll tell you what's not right," she says. "I hated the way you were looking at her. To you, she was the only person in that damn room. I was invisible. Actually, you know what? It was worse than that. I wasn't even fucking _there_."

"Yes, you were," I say. "Stop. I don't want to talk about this anymore."

"But I'm not done," she says. "Did you love her?"

I stare ahead, sensing the city passing us by on either side but not turning to look. I don't look at my girlfriend, either.

"I don't know why I even fucking ask," she says, and I hear her eyes roll. "It's obvious. I wonder if her boyfriend knows that while we were sitting there, you were literally undressing her with your eyes."

I stiffen, blinking ahead still. I can't look at her, because she's right. And along that same vein, I'm sure Andrew was aware of the same thing. I can't help but wonder how their car ride is going.

We pull up to the hotel, and I step out. I wait on the sidewalk for Marisa, but she doesn't follow. I duck to look inside and find her still sitting in the same spot, legs crossed, hands folded on her lap. From the light coming from the building behind me, tear stains are visible on her cheeks.

"You coming?" I ask.

She glances at me, then down at her knees. Shaking her head, she says, "No," and doesn't offer any further explanation.

"Um, okay," I stammer, unsure of how to feel. "Do you need my credit card, or-"

"I'm fucking fine, Jackson," she hisses. "I don't need anything from you. Goodnight."

I raise my eyebrows, eyes wide. "Night," I say, then shut the door to turn around and walk inside.

When I get up to the room, I strip off my fancy clothes and throw them on a chair. I put on a pair of sweatpants and relax on the bed after turning on the TV, flipping through the Pay-Per-View channels before accidentally ending up in the adult section.

Feeling guilty but somewhat excited, I click through the options. After cringing at most of the corny, unsexy titles, I find my way to a selection with a redhead. I don't bother looking at the title or wasting time with the lead-up, I fast-forward straight to the action and find what I'm looking for.

As the actress has the same creamy-white skin and fiery hair of April's, I'm transported exactly where I want to be. I push my sweatpants down my hips until my erection springs out, then wrap my hand around my dick and start stroking. With the other arm resting behind my head, I beat off while listening to his girl moan much more dramatically than April does, much more theatrically. I know porn is fake, I know it's all acting, but it doesn't matter when I'm looking at a girl whose coloring is so close to April's.

Their bodies aren't quite the same - April's chest is smaller, hips narrower, collarbones daintier. This girl has no freckles, no white half-moon birthmark on the top knob of her spine. But still, the knockoff version is the best I can get tonight.

 _I bet she let you fuck her rough, didn't she? In the way I won't?_

With my dick in hand, Marisa's words ring through my mind. She hit it right on the head - April used to love it when I was dominant in bed. I can only imagine her sexual preferences have become more refined over the years, and I can't help but wonder what they are. I wonder if she'd still like being submissive, if she'd still want me to take control. Marisa hates that, but she's not who I want to think about right now.

I'm not sure what our future holds, but I'm not worried about it at the moment. Right now, I'm worried about the redheaded pornstar's legs wrapped around her partner's waist as he fucks the life out of her, and when I close my eyes I pretend that it's us. Me and April.

I come hard - harder than I have in a while. I hold my dick tight and keep stroking until the last of the liquid seeps onto my hand and wrist, and I'm spent.

"Fuck," I breathe, chest heaving. I turn the TV off, not needing the visual anymore.

I get in the shower and can't help thinking about what Andrew and April are up to. If they're still fighting, in icy silence, or separated tonight.

When I go to bed, I sleep better than I have in weeks. Months, even. I wake up fully rested as the sun streams in through the slatted blinds and lie there with my arms thrown above my head.

I'm comfortable, in complete relaxation. Nothing could make me move. I close my eyes with the intent of going back to sleep, but suddenly 'Love on the Brain' sounds from the nightstand as my phone buzzes.

My eyes jolt open and I grapple for the phone. Without needing to look and see who it is, I pick up, voice still raspy from sleep.

"Hey," I say.

"Morning," April replies, sounding like she's been awake for a while. "Did I wake you?"

"Yeah," I say. "Kind of. But it's alright."

She giggles softly. "Kinda like old times, right?"

The warmth from the memory floods through me, and a smile trickles onto my face. I used to love waking up to her voice, hearing about her plans for the day, talking about nothing at all. Now, I close my eyes and imagine she's here. That's the only better option.

"You were the wake-up call," I say. "Better than an alarm clock, that's for sure."

"Your voice is still so cute in the morning," she says.

My heart flutters. I'm a grown man, and my heart flutters hearing her say that. I don't know how to respond, though. I know we shouldn't be flirting, but it's such a comfortable place to fall back to. I almost don't know how to communicate with her in any other way.

"How'd last night go for you?" she asks, probably sensing my hesitation.

"Ah, shit," I say, clapping a hand over my eyes. For those blissful moments, last night was wiped from my brain. And now, it's back full force.

"Yeah," she says. "Mine wasn't great, either."

"What went down?"

She hums softly. "We fought," she says. "In the car, he gave me an ultimatum. Basically, he asked… him or you?"

I furrow my eyebrows, wanting to prompt how she answered. But I don't. I wait for her to go there.

"I told him it was wrong to ask. Then, we got in a fight over that. He brought up the necklace and how I've been lying about it, which I have. I've lied to everyone about that, everyone except my friend, Lexie. Then, he called me out about not being truthful on who I gave my virginity to, and lying about my history with you." She sighs. "He wasn't wrong about any of it. I lied a lot. And I don't know why I did it, maybe to protect you. Not you, that's not what I'm trying to say. Protect the memory I had of you, I guess. I don't know if that makes sense."

"It does," I say, after a beat. "I think I was doing the same thing. Marisa was pissed as hell at me, probably still is. She didn't come back to the hotel last night. I don't know where she went."

"Andrew didn't sleep here, either," she says. "He usually does. My place is bigger. But last night, he went home." She makes a small sound. "I guess I can't really blame him. I've been shitty. Ever since I saw you in Chicago…" There's a short pause. "I don't know. I haven't been all in with him. And I've been trying, I really have, but… it's just not the same."

I scrub my hand over the stubble on my face and stare at the ceiling. "Why _did_ you lie about your virginity?" I ask.

"I don't know," she says. "I'm not proud of it. I just didn't want him asking about who I'd been with. It was easier. I didn't know he was so proud of it. It was kind of gross, honestly. And the way you got all territorial… Jackson, that was bad."

"I know," I say. "I'm sorry. I don't know what came over me."

"I know," she echoes. "I know. The dinner was…"

"Not a good idea," I finish.

"Does it make me crazy if I say I wouldn't take it back, though?" she asks, voice small.

I chuckle humorlessly. "I don't know," I say. "Maybe."

"Maybe not crazy," she says. "But a bad person, probably."

"You could never be a bad person," I reply, instantly.

"We cheated," she says. "I didn't tell him that. So, in reality, I'm still lying."

"Well, so am I," I say. "Marisa was asking all sorts of questions last night. I had the perfect opportunity to come clean, but I didn't. And I don't know why."

"Yeah," April says.

There's a strained silence as we both fully realize we do know why.

"I liked seeing you," I say, growing bold. "Out like that. Dressed up. It felt like… I don't know. It felt like the old days. You know, where we'd go out and have dinner."

"Except it wasn't our date," she corrects.

"Well, right," I say. "But you know what I mean."

"I do," she says. I hear the smile in her voice. "I do." She pauses for a moment, and when she speaks again her voice is laced with embers. "You know, Andrew barely commented on my dress."

"What?"

"The dress I wore last night," she says. "He barely looked at it. I'm asking you this as my friend, don't you think that's stupid?"

"As your friend," I say, "I think he's fucking crazy. You looked insanely gorgeous. If he kept his hands off you last night, there's either something wrong with him, or his balls are on ice."

"Well, we did fight pretty bad," she says.

"Wouldn't have mattered to me," I say. "Nothing wrong with some angry sex."

"Nothing wrong at all," she purrs.

From the other room, I hear a small beep and the sound of the door. Expecting housekeeping, I get out of bed and walk through the suite to greet them, only to see Marisa standing in the entryway wearing athletic loungewear. Her hair is loosely curled, makeup done, and she has a fresh manicure. I can't help wondering when she had the time for all this.

"Hey," I say into the phone. "April, I gotta go."

"Oh," she says, and as I listen to her voice I watch Marisa's facial expression contort from dubious to furious in a millisecond. "Okay. Talk later."

"Uh-huh," I say. "Bye."

I hang up the phone and slip it into my sweatpants pocket. Immediately, Marisa turns around to leave again, stopping to look at me over her shoulder.

"Seriously, Jackson?" she yells. "Seriously? You're on the phone with her? After all last night I… oh my god, I can't fucking believe you."

"Missy, it's not like that. Come on, just give me a chance to explain."

"Why should I?" she asks. "I spent all last night fighting with you about her, and I come here this morning hoping to smooth things over, but there you are on the phone with your little girlfriend, probably complaining about me!"

"I wasn't complaining about you, come on," I say. "Stop it. April and I… we were best friends. Something that big, you can't just erase. She was a huge part of my life, and I was a huge part of hers. And we just found each other after a fuckin' decade. That's huge… this is huge for me. You have to understand that."

"I don't have to understand anything," she says, hitching her purse higher on her shoulder. "And I'm not going to waste any more of my time trying with you."

I squint. "What are you talking about?"

She waves her hands in front of her face. "I'm done here," she says.

"Done?" I ask. "What?"

"Done with this," she says. "Done with you, done with whatever you've been stringing me along for over the past three years. No wonder you always seemed absent, Jackson, you still love her. She's not just an 'old friend.'" She shakes her head. "You never fell out of love with her."

I open my mouth to reply, but no sound comes out. Instead, I stand there like a fish on land, gaping. Hoping the right words will come. But, surprisingly, they don't.

"I know," she says. "You don't need to say anything. You can say you're sorry, but it's not your fault. It's nobody's fault." She tightens her lips. "But you didn't need to make me fall for you just to keep yourself warm."

And with that, she turns on her heel and walks out of the door and in turn, walks out of my life.

I stare at the place she just vacated, at a loss for any coherent thoughts. Guilt washes through me for feeling relief, and those two feelings are soon overwhelmed by immense realization and acceptance. Nothing Marisa said was untrue, and it took her less than 24 hours to figure it out. And me, it took me a decade to wrap my head around the fact that I never quite let go of April.

I slip my phone out of my pocket and redial her number, but it just rings and rings. Her voicemail picks up, but I don't leave one. I call back a second time only to get the same result, then decide to head over to her place so we can talk this out in person. It'll probably go over better that way, anyway.

She told me where she lives during a side conversation, but since I held onto the information, I find the way easily. She lives on the top floor, the penthouse apartment, and I have to pull some serious strings with the front desk to make it up there. But eventually, I do.

As I ride the elevator, my mouth is dry and my throat is tight. I have no plans for what I'll say, and I convince myself it'll be better without a script. This way, I can't be disappointed if she doesn't follow it.

I ring the bell once I make it to the top floor and wait with bated breath. I hear footsteps a few moments later and get excited as I picture April in the doorway, probably dressed in lounge clothes. She used to love soft, cotton pajama pants with silly patterns on them, but not to wear as actual pajamas. To go to sleep, she'd wear as little as possible. I wonder if she still has the same preference.

But when the door opens, it isn't April who appears, it's Andrew. At first his expression is confused and expectant, but in the blink of an eye it lowers to anger and stiffness.

"What are you doing here?" he asks, blocking the doorway.

I don't know how to answer. Do I tell him the truth? What other choice do I have? The last thing I expected was for him to be here. Last I heard, he and April weren't on good terms. What other reason would I have to be at her house other than to see her?

"Is April here?" I ask, avoiding the question.

"No," he says, taking one step out the door and towards me. "She's out. What do you want with her?"

"Look," I say. "I'm not trying to start shit. Honestly. So, you don't have to get all alpha on me."

He puffs his chest out, asserting himself. I narrow my eyes and stand to my full height, not exactly towering over him, but I've got a few inches. He has everything to prove, and no grounds on which to prove it. Between the two of us, I'm no longer the one with confidence issues.

"She's not property," I say. "You don't own her."

"Neither do you," he says. "Yet you seem to think you do."

"Not at all," I say, keeping my cool. My voice is casual, but our faces are only inches apart. The air around us is ready to crack.

"Then explain last night," he says.

"I don't think I need to," I say. "Didn't you two already have that conversation?"

A small puff of air comes from his nose. "How do you know that?"

"Assumed as much," I say.

"You don't know anything about our relationship," he says. "And I need you to leave. You're on private property."

"I know plenty about your relationship," I say, body buzzing with the onset of unbridled energy. I have the irresistible urge to shove the truth in this idiot's face, and I know I won't win the fight against that urge. "Plenty."

"Oh, yeah?" he says. "And how's that?"

"I know she's settling for you because she can't have me," I say. "Or at least, she couldn't. You don't satisfy her, Andrew. You're weak in bed. You have a boring personality; you don't give her what she needs. April is a complex person, and you don't understand her. You can pretend you do, and she can pretend that you do, too. But you're half the person she needs."

He grits his teeth together. "And who's the person she needs, then? You?"

"Seems like it," I say. "Last night would say as much. I have that little piece of her that you thought you had, don't I? You thought you were her only, that you took away her purity, but you don't even have that. You were holding onto that thought, and I'm sorry. But I had her first, and no matter what happens, I'll always be the one who had her first."

It happens before I can really register it. Suddenly, his fist collides with my face and I take a few steps back and recoil, surprised he had the balls to follow through.

"Alright," I say, holding my face. "I probably deserved that."

"Get the fuck out of here," he says. "You're a pompous bastard; it's no wonder she left you. She'd do it again, given the chance."

My lips twitch with words that won't form, and my fist trembles with how badly I want to hit him. But I know for a fact that if April comes home and sees him battered as badly as I'd beat him, she'll never forgive me.

"Fuck you," I say. "You weak-ass, limp-dick motherfucker."

I leave the apartment nursing a split lip, and catch a cab back to my hotel. I should be heading back to Chicago today, but with everything in turmoil there's no way that's going to happen. If I flew out now, I'd be left without closure for a second time. And I can't shoulder that again.

Later that day, I'm going through work emails on my laptop when I get a call from April. Before I get a chance to say 'hello,' she's already talking.

"I can't believe him," she says. "I can't believe you! I heard what happened, he told me everything. Jackson, what did you do? What did he do? What happened? Why did this happen?"

"April," I say. "I said some callus things, he punched-"

"I know he punched you!" she shrills. "You shouldn't have been here, you can't just burst into my life like that, not like we used to. It isn't like that anymore. He's… him, and I have a history with him, too. It isn't the same, but you can't… Jackson, what did you do?"

"It wasn't just me," I say. "He fuckin' punched me in the face."

"I know," she says. "And I told him I can't see him for a few days. You didn't deserve that, and I'm so sorry."

"Well," I say. "I _was_ being a dick. But I couldn't stop. When it comes to you, I can never stop."

There's a poignant pause. It rests heavy on our backs like a bag of bricks.

"Can I come see you?" she asks. "I need to see you, talk this through in person. I can't wrap my head around it, I just… I need to see you. Can I come to the hotel?"

"Sure," I say, excited already. "Talk to the front desk. The door will be open."

She arrives in under an hour, walking through the front door of my suite dressed in leggings and a dark gray running hoodie. By the flush of her face and the windblown look of her hair, I can tell she ran here.

"I didn't know you ran," I say, looking over from the couch.

"I do now," she says, hands on her head as she paces and takes her shoes off. "Have for a few years." She looks over at me. "Water?"

"Mini-fridge," I say, and hear it open before she takes a long swig of the bottle and finishes it.

After she's done, she comes over to the couch and sits with one leg tucked under her. She swipes some hair off her forehead and looks at me, so I close my laptop and set it on the coffee table.

"Your lip," she says, leaning forward. Without warning, she lifts her hand and touches it gently with her pointer finger. I flinch from the small spark of pain, so she pulls back.

"Yeah, I know," I say.

"Do you have an antibiotic?" she asks.

I shake my head, eyebrows up. "No idea," I say. "Not my place."

"I'll take care of it," she says, then stands up and heads towards the bathroom. I hear her rustling around, and she appears again moments later with a small tube in hand. "Neosporin will help it heal faster," she says.

"Alright," I say. "Toss it here."

"No, not you," she says, sitting back down. "I'll do it. Here. Come closer."

As I lean in, I smell the sweat on her skin. The dampness of her body makes the scent of her shampoo more prominent, and I realize it's the same as it always was. All this money, and she hasn't changed shampoos.

She puts a dab of ointment on her finger and gently touches my bottom lip, dragging it over the cut with expert care. I watch her eyes first, eyelashes downcast as she watches what she does, then switch to her lips. They're plush and pink, moving slightly as her tongue sticks out with concentration. She always used to do that when she was heavily focused, and I almost forgot how cute it is.

"There," she says, dabbing one last time. "That should heal nicely now."

But instead of moving away, she stays. Then, she moves closer and I can't help but mirror her motion. I reach out and hold her neck between my palms, feeling the perspiration beneath my fingertips, and she tilts her head to one side and studies my lips.

"I wanna kiss you so bad…" she whispers, and the vein in her neck throbs under my touch.

"So do it," I say, licking my lips. I taste the ointment she just put on and know she'll end up tasting it, too, but I don't say that aloud. I prefer a twinge of pain over not kissing her.

When she presses her lips to mine, it's slow and tentative. Her hands find the sides of my head and she drags her thumbs through my hair, leaning in and pressing herself close.

"Jesus, April," I murmur.

After, she opens her lips and sucks on my lower one slowly, running her hands down from my head to rest one on my chest. I know she can feel how fast my heart is beating, because I feel hers, too.

She brings the other hand up to my face and replaces the spot where her lips had been. She pushes her pointer finger into my mouth and, without breaking eye contact, I wrap my tongue around it and suck hard, with rhythm.

Aroused by my actions, she clambers onto my lap with her knees on either side of my hips. She keeps her finger in my mouth and moves the other hand lower, cupping the bulge between my legs and grazing over it roughly with the heel of her palm.

Getting the idea, I wind one arm around her and grip her ass tight, then move her hand away from my mouth with the other. I reciprocate her actions and stick my fingers between her lips, and she wraps her tongue around two of them before I pull out and slip them down the front of her leggings.

Wetted by her tongue, I push those two fingers inside her and she works her hips against them. She throws her arms around my neck and pulls my shirt off from the back, then drapes herself over my shoulders and works herself against my hand, still moving.

"Deeper," she pants, shoving her hips forward. "One more. Put one more in me, Jackson."

Following her request, I slide a third finger inside her and she moans in response. She trails her hands over my back and clutches me tight while she comes, and I feel her inner walls fluttering around my fingers. When I remove them, they're soaked, and I lick them clean.

She whimpers as she lies limp over me, still twitching. Then, her fingertips ghost over my right shoulder blade, over something she's noticed before but has been altered since then.

"Your tattoo…" she whispers. "You changed it."

"Yeah," I say, skimming my hands around her waist and solidifying them there.

"What are the flowers for?" she asks, tracing them. Her touch sends chills up my spine.

"You," I say, and it's not a lie.

When Marisa found the tattoo for the first time, I told her it meant nothing. That the compass rose I got in law school with the subtle flowers drawn over the north was something random, chosen at the shop because there was a deal. But in reality, I got it for April.

"Me?"

I nod, tracing her spine.

"April flowers," I say. "Over the north. And I found my way back to you." She lifts up and looks into my eyes, and hers are sparkling with tears. "I always kind of hoped I would."

She frames my face in her palms and kisses me with everything she has. When we break away, she traces my jaw and kisses me softer, closing her eyes with grace.

"You're who I want," she says. "There was never a choice to be made, it was never a question. And I know for sure. I need to tell him. Before we do anything else, I need to break things off with Andrew."

She traces the bow of my lips and I kiss the pad of her finger while our eyes stay locked.

"It's you," she says. "It's always been you."


	13. Chapter 13

**APRIL**

Jackson strokes my cheekbones with his thumbs, and as I stare into his eyes I know I need to tell him everything.

I need to lay the truth on the table. All the thoughts that swirled through my head during the hardest time of my life, and why I felt so guilty over what I did. It wasn't just that my body expelled our baby. That was a big part of why I removed myself from him, but the emotions that came with were part of it, too.

"What is it?" he asks, after a substantial pocket of silence has passed.

I'm transported back to earth by the sound of his voice. He can read me so well; I hadn't needed to say a word for him to realize I have something on my mind. Even after all these years, he still has me memorized. There's a certain comfort in that, like being dead tired at the end of the day and remembering you made your bed that morning.

I can't help but wonder, though, if there are things I wouldn't recognize about him. One thing is obvious - he doesn't wear glasses anymore. I can only assume he chose contacts instead, or maybe laser eye surgery. Either way, when I look at him there's something missing on the surface. What might be missing underneath? When I least expect it, what rug will be pulled from under my feet?

I bite my lower lip as Andrew crosses my mind. Over the handful of years I've been with him, he's been predictable. Reliable, dependable to the point of redundancy. Our relationship isn't exciting, doesn't keep me on my toes, but I know that with him, there won't be any surprises. His temper can get out of hand, but most of the time, he keeps it in check.

Should I be tempted to stay with him because I know what our future will look like?

My eyes roam to Jackson's as he searches for clues, reads the map to where my mind has gone. Then, I come to the conclusion that, no, just because Andrew is comfortable doesn't mean what we have is healthy. I'm dissatisfied on every level, and the type of love I have for him is like the love for a worn-in cardigan with holes in it. The kind you can't bear to throw away because you've had it for so long.

I tell myself that what I have with Jackson is worth it. I can throw away the old cardigan and trade it in for a sturdy, beautiful jacket that's been hanging in the closet for years, waiting for me though I didn't know it.

"April," Jackson says again. He touches my chin, and his eyes are soft. "Where did you go?"

I blink. "I'm right here," I say, and lean forward to skim the tip of my nose over his cheekbone. "I'm here."

"What are you thinking about?" he asks.

I'm catapulted back ten years, when the miscarriage happened. As I laid in my bed in Moline, surrounded by posters from my childhood, dark and shameful thoughts hacking at the corners of my mind. The day before I got back on my feet was the worst, and I still remember it like it was yesterday. Though I wasn't physically ill, the guilt-ridden thought that lodged itself at the forefront of my brain made me vomit intermittently throughout that whole day.

"Something bad," I admit. My jaw is trembling, so I grit my teeth together. "Something that might make you hate me."

Lines appear on his forehead, the lines that always came when he was deep in thought. I remember them showing up as he was bent over his LSAT study book, trying to beat his own score. I remember trying to smooth them away back then, and I do the same now. I reach and trace them with my pointer finger, stomach flipping with nerves over what I'm about to tell him.

It's something I've never told anyone, not even my mother. And she was the one by my side throughout that whole ordeal, the only one who I let in. But not to this thought. This thought was private only to me; I was the only one who knew what a horrible person I'd become.

"I could never hate you," he says.

I bite my lower lip. "You did, though. For a long time," I say.

He frowns. "That wasn't hate," he says.

I know that. I know that hate and love are such strong emotions, that in reality, there's a very thin boundary between them. I know that tightrope all too well. I've walked a lesser version of it during the times when Andrew gets angry, and I wonder how I could stay with someone with such evil in their eyes, someone who's left marks on me.

"I know," I murmur. "But… I don't know. This is different."

"What's it about?"

I force myself to meet his eyes, though it's extremely difficult. I swallow loudly and wonder if I should get off his lap, where I'm still sitting. I have a feeling he won't want to be close to me after I say what I'm about to say, but I can't move. The feeling of his body under mine is too comforting, too familiar. If I move away, I might lose my gumption.

As if reading my mind, he strokes my lower back with the pads of his thumbs. On the skin, where my shirt rides up.

"The miscarriage," I whisper.

He falters. His lips part slightly, and his blinking becomes more disjointed and rapid. I sense the change in him as I've sensed it in myself.

"I want things to be real between us," I say. "No secrets or hiding anything. And in order for me to follow through on that… I want to tell you this." I gnaw on the inside of my cheek, so obsessively that I taste blood. "I've never told anyone. And it's really hard for me to say."

"It's okay," he says, still caressing my back.

I nod, eyes flitting to his lips instead of locking with his. It'll be easier this way.

"When I lost the baby…" I say. "I was a wreck. I blamed myself because of the stress, I was sure I did it. That I was the reason. And something inside still tells me that's true. No matter what my mom said, what my therapist says, I think I'll always believe that. But…"

My voice cracks, and I clear my throat to sound stronger. I'm not sure if it works.

"When I was laying there in my bed, getting calls from my director and having the scripts sent to my house, getting offers from agents…" I shake my head, then lift my eyes to the ceiling to stop the tears from falling. "On the last day before I went back, I wasn't guilty. At least, not for the original reason. I felt relieved. Relieved, because I lost the baby and my life wouldn't have to change. Not because I wanted the baby to die, that… I would never think something like that. But the miscarriage hadn't happened, my life would've been turned upside down. Yes, I would've gotten to bring a beautiful little life into the world, and there's no one I'd rather do that with than you, but realistically…" I sigh, noticing how his hands have loosened on my back. "My career would have been over. And it had only just begun."

The tears come, unstoppable. Hot, fat beads roll down my cheeks and I don't make any move to wipe them away.

"I know I'm an awful person for thinking that, for being relieved I lost a baby. When so many women can't even get pregnant, there I am thanking my lucky stars that my pregnancy fell through. I was still so sad at the same time that it did, though. I know I'm not making sense. I'm not happy it happened. But it seems like it was almost meant to. It made me sick, the fact that I was relieved. You have to know it made me sick. I threw up all day; the shame was like poison."

I screw up my face, disgusted.

"It still is. And I didn't want to tell you. I've never told a soul. But I don't want to keep anything from you anymore, Jackson. I want you to know all of me. And that's the worst part of me. So, I understand if you change your mind about us being together. I don't know what kind of mother I'll be someday, if that was where my mind went after the miscarriage. I don't know what kind of a person that makes me in general."

I shake my head, unable to stop talking now.

"Maybe we don't know each other anymore," I say, my worst fear sneaking in. "If I'm a stranger to you, if you don't want to be with me… I'll understand."

He's quiet for a long time. When I'm ready to look at his eyes again, he's not looking at me. He's looking off to the side towards the floor, but he hasn't tried to lift my body off. His arms are still around my waist, absentmindedly playing with the hem of my shirt. I take this as a good sign.

After a good five minutes have passed, I speak up again.

"Please, say something," I murmur.

He inhales deeply. I watch as he carefully chooses his words.

"I want to be with you more than I want anything in the world," he says, finally lifting his chin. "I don't want you hating yourself over this. It's a horrible thing that happened. A horrible thing that I'm not going to get over in just a couple days. You've had years to sit with it, and I…"

His lower lip trembles. He closes his mouth to try and hide it, but I miss nothing.

"I've barely had any time at all," he continues. "You just have to give me time." He reaches up, moving his hands from my back, to hold my face. Softly, he caresses my cheekbones with his thumbs again. "I know you. You could never be a stranger."

I start crying harder, for a much different reason. A heavy, soaked blanket lifts off my shoulders and crumples to the floor, where it belongs. Where it's belonged for years.

"I'm with you through anything," he says. "The highs, the lows, the whatever. When you have bad thoughts and when you have really good ones. It might be hard, I might not understand you all the time, but you have to know I'm gonna be here. And you have to let me."

I nod fervently.

"I don't wanna leave," he says. "I can't lose you again. So, please, don't assume that around every corner you have to worry about me being a flight risk." He looks into my eyes steadily. "I'm not going anywhere."

I nod again and hold his face, mirroring his movements, then press my lips to his in a quick, emotion-laden kiss.

"I still love you," I whisper, voice hoarse with feeling.

"I never stopped," he says, eyes watery.

But he's wearing the same smile I am.

…

On the way to Andrew's house to break the news, I can't stop grinning. I know I shouldn't be so happy, as I'm on the way to mess up his life, but I can't help it. Everything with Jackson and me is going in such a healthy, uphill direction, that I can't help but feel elated.

It isn't perfect between us, and it won't be for a long time. But I have him in front of me, where I can see him, where I can hold him. He's here, with me. And that's what matters. If we're together, things can be fixed. And I have hope that they will be.

As I'm walking down the sidewalk, I get a call from my agent.

"April," Estelle says. "I have amazing news for you."

Interest piqued, I raise my eyebrows. "Tell me," I say.

"You're being invited to play the role of Ivy in _August Osage County_ at the Goodman Theatre in Chicago," she says. "The director called me just a few minutes ago."

My mouth falls open. "Wait," I say. "Are you serious? An invitation to audition?"

"No," Estelle says. "Without an audition. They know they want you, April."

I stop in my tracks. "Oh, my gosh," I mutter.

"So, can I call her back with an answer?" she asks.

"I…" I stammer, then try and compose myself. "Of course. Of course you can. Tell her yes. Yes, of course. And that I'm absolutely flattered. And honored. And everything. Send me the details as soon as you know."

"Can do," she says, and I hear the smile in her voice.

Since I've stopped in the middle of the sidewalk, rushed New Yorkers push past me at a breakneck pace. I don't notice them, though. Instead, I'm thinking about the opportunity that's been thrust into my lap. I've loved _August Osage County_ for years, and playing such a big role is huge for me.

And I'm going back to Chicago. The good news in that goes without saying.

I pause outside Andrew's apartment building, leaned against the side, and dial Jackson's number. He answers sounding confused, being that I told him I might be gone for a while.

"I have great news," I say, jittering. "Amazing news. You're not gonna believe this. You're really not gonna believe this!"

"Spit it out," he says, matching my excitement.

"I got offered a role back in Chicago!" I screech, jumping up and down. "And I accepted!"

"Holy shit," he says, and I picture his shocked, amazed face. "Are you kidding? You're coming back to Chicago?"

"Yes," I say, smiling wildly. "I'm coming home."

"Oh, my god," he says. "I wish I could hug you. When I see you later, I'm gonna take you out, okay? We're going out and we're gonna celebrate. This is awesome, April. I'm so…" The smile in his voice comes back. "This is awesome."

"Thank you," I say, grinning. "I know. I can't believe it." I look up at the tall building next to me and know what I still have to do, though. "I have to go. I'm here at Andrew's place. I'll call you when I get home, though, okay?"

He agrees, and I slip my phone back in my purse before ringing the buzzer to Andrew's apartment. He answers within seconds, letting me up without needing to ask who it is.

I knock when I make it to his floor, though that's not usually something I do.

"Come on in, sweetheart," he says. "It's open."

My stomach twists with his use of that nickname. I walk through the door and find him in the kitchen, pouring two glasses of white wine when I know for a fact that he hates wine in general.

"Hey," he says, offering a smile. "What a surprise."

"Yeah," I say. He looks at the purse still on my shoulder. If this were a normal occurrence, I'd already be making myself at home - shoes off, purse down - but this is not a normal day. I can't help but wonder if he can sense it. He must, because he's not acting like himself.

"I found it a little odd when you called," he says, offering me the stem of a wineglass as he holds his own. "I didn't think you wanted to hear from me for a while."

I take the glass, but set it down on a coaster. I don't plan on drinking it.

"Um, yeah," I say, curling a piece of hair behind my ear. I've since showered from my run earlier, and look much more presentable now. "That's sort of the reason why I came here."

"Because you missed me?" he asks, cheekily. "No, but really. I want to apologize again for how I acted, it was totally wrong. You know that's not who I am, don't you?" He takes a step closer to me, and I instinctively lean away. "You know that."

"I… do," I say, but my voice isn't confident. I'm not comfortable here, I'm on his turf. He holds the control in this situation, which doesn't play in my favor. I tell myself that at least I can leave when I need to, instead of trying to force him out of my place had I invited him over. So, I have some agency.

"You said you wanted to talk," he says, leaning on the counter. "What about?" I meet his eyes, which are a deep brown, and he skims my body. "You look lovely, by the way."

I look down at my outfit. I'm wearing dark skinny jeans and a zip-up peach sweatshirt, nothing special at all. I don't have an ounce of makeup on my face, and my hair is up in a bun. I couldn't look more casual if I tried.

"Thanks," I say.

"So, what's going on, April?" he says. "Or maybe, if it's this hard for you to say, you shouldn't say it at all."

"No, I need to say it," I say, tracing the edge of the coaster beneath my glass. "I came here for a reason, Andrew. I haven't been completely honest with you."

I've caught his attention now. His eyebrows push together, and the shadows in his eyes come out from the corners.

"You know Jackson and I have history," I say. "I told you that. I told you he was my first, back when I lived in Chicago."

"Well, technically, _he_ told me," Andrew mumbles.

"Right," I say. "What we had, me and Jackson, it was special. It was different. He made me feel more than anyone ever had before. And I broke things off with him in a stupid, selfish way that I've regretted since I did it. I had my reasons, reasons that still sit with me to this day, but that's a chapter of my life that I've never been able to close."

I look up to find Andrew already staring daggers into me. It doesn't take a genius to realize he's figured out why I came here.

"What are you saying?" he snaps.

I sigh softly, continuing to trace the bottom of the coaster. "I'm still in love with him," I say. "And ever since I saw him, I haven't been fair to you. In all honesty, with Jackson around, I wouldn't be fair to anyone. He's always captured something of mine that no one else has. It's nothing against you, I promise. It's him. Jackson… he's just… he's the one. I don't expect you to understand that, but I am asking you to respect it. Because you respect me."

Andrew won't lift his head now. His hands are braced on the counter, shoulders hunched by his ears. When he takes a step forward, towards me, I watch his every move.

"Where did this come from?" he asks. "We were fine. Is this because I won't go down on you? And he did, or something?"

"That's not it," I say. "It's much more than that."

"But you're saying that's part of it," he says.

I blink once, and somehow he reads it.

"It is," he spits. "Is that seriously all you think about, April? Sex? I'd think that someone as smart as you would have something other than how bad I'm fucking you on your mind."

"Andrew," I say, gaping. "I didn't say that. You're putting words in my mouth."

"I never make you go down on _me,_ " he says. "And I could. But I never ask. I thought we had a good thing going, I thought you liked it. It's only been recently that-"

He cuts himself off, eyes darting around the room as his thoughts whir.

"It's because of him, isn't it? That you've been asking for all the fucking head?" He comes even closer, hand trailing along the smooth granite.

"I don't think asking twice is all that much," I say, growing defensive. "And it's not my fault you won't even try."

"I shouldn't have to, if you won't reciprocate," he says.

"Why would I reciprocate when you don't take any initiative to make me feel good?" I ask, standing from the stool I was sitting on. "Thrusting twice and assuming I came too doesn't count as sex, Andrew. You could do the same thing with a fucking doll."

"Now you're just being crude."

I shake my head, pinching my lips. "Jackson _never_ …" I begin, then amend my thought. "He always makes sure I come first."

The moment it comes out, I realize I've used the present tense instead of the past. Andrew hears it too, and his eyebrow quirks as the rest of his face freezes.

"Did he fuck you?" he asks, popping my personal bubble and making me take a step back. "When? When did it happen? Why don't you tell me all about it, since you're so desperate for some action."

I decide not to cover it up anymore. "Before the dinner," I say, brazen. "He ate me out, and you've never given me an orgasm like the one he did. Then, I gave him head and swallowed every…" I get in his face like he's in mine. "Last. Drop."

I register the pain before I realize what happened. My head recoils from the force of his open palm, and my cheek burns from how hard he slapped me. Tears spring to my eyes as I stumble backwards, away from him.

I shouldn't be as surprised as I am. But during the previous incidents, he shoved me and I hit the wall. He grabbed my upper arms too tight and left bruises. But he's never laid a hand on me, and I feel stupid for not seeing it coming.

"How could you?" he shouts, not even slightly apologetic or shocked by what he's done.

I'm still holding my cheek, pain throbbing throughout my entire head. "You hit me," I whimper.

"And you cheated on me," he growls. "You're a slut. You two deserve each other."

My chest heaves as I stare at him, my body shrinking into itself. "You hit me," I repeat, seemingly unable to say anything else.

"Get out of my house," he orders, turning his back. "I can't look at you. Leave. I don't want to see you again."

Still holding my face, I walk through the door I came in just moments ago and stand in the hall, in disbelief over what just happened. I had expected a fight, but I never pictured it escalating like that. And most of all, I never expected he'd lay hands on me.

Jackson isn't the stranger, after all.

…

When I get home, I don't call Jackson like I said I would. Instead, I change into my running clothes and head out for the second time today. I don't start slow; right from the get-go I head off at a breakneck sprint. I weave expertly through the sporadic crowds of people on the sidewalk and pump my arms, letting the wind in my face wash everything off the surface of my brain.

I sprint until I can't breathe. Until I end up in the middle of Central Park, doubled over with my hands on my knees, back heaving. Sweat drips from my forehead, down my face and into the divot between my collarbones, and I let it stay.

Every muscle in my body protests, but I start moving again at the same speed. I careen down cement paths and under bridges, past strollers and joggers, dogs and walkers. I pant with my teeth gritted together, the snap of the cold air burning my face.

It doesn't burn as badly as the handprint on my cheek, though. I didn't bother to look in the mirror before I left, so I'm not sure if it's visible or not. But it doesn't matter. I feel it as if his hand is still there, branding me.

My hair falls out of its ponytail on the third mile and I don't bother fixing it. It whips behind my head, tangles itself into knots, gets caught in thorns and brambles when I veer off the trail. My chest feels like it might split open, my heart pumping faster than I can take, but I can't bear to stop. If I stop, my legs will give out and they won't start again. If I keep running, they have no choice but to obey.

I don't take shortcuts. I weave through the park, sweat and tears mixing, until I get back to my apartment building. The doorman greets me, but I don't acknowledge his presence. I can't breathe. My vision grows black around the edges and the lobby spins.

"Are you okay, miss?" a security guard asks, approaching me.

He extends an arm. I flinch away.

"Is everything alright?"

"I'm fine," I say, leaning against the back of an armchair I've sat in before while waiting on Andrew. "I just need to get upstairs. I'm fine."

"Would you like some help?"

"I don't need help," I say, but contradicting my statement, I topple to the floor behind the chair seconds later.

I'm a ragdoll, limbs folded boneless beneath me. I make no move to recover or stand up; I watch people gather around, eyes wide as dinner plates. Their mouths gape like fish, but I can't hear a word they're saying. Everything is muffled, fluid, and my heart continues to race.

I hear one question though.

 _Is there anyone we can call?_

I say the first name that comes to mind, the name I should've said all those years ago, then pass out.

…

When I wake up, I'm in my apartment lying on the couch. I blink up at the ceiling, orienting myself, and notice a presence beside me.

Under me, actually. The pillow on which my head rests is on Jackson's lap, and he's running his fingers gently through my hair. He catches my eye once he realizes I'm awake, and his face lights up.

"You're up," he says.

"I'm alive," I reply, voice scratchy.

"How do you feel?" he asks.

I part my lips and smack them together. "Thirsty," I say.

He carefully lifts my head and I rest on the couch until he comes back. As I drink, he props me up and watches me like I'm a child, graduated from a sippy cup and using a real glass for the first time.

"You okay?" he asks, guiding the glass back to the coffee table. He strokes my hair away from my face, and we both notice my subtle recoil. I want to take it back as soon as it happens.

"How did I get here?" I say, dodging the question.

"Baby, you passed out in the lobby," he says. I almost miss the tail end of his sentence because of how tightly I cling to the pet name, 'baby.' That one has always been my favorite - I never let Andrew use it. "Security called and I came right over. I carried you upstairs. You've been out for about an hour."

"Oh," I say, rubbing my eyes.

He wraps an arm around my shoulders and gently rests my body against his. Stroking my upper arm, he asks, "What happened?"

I shake my head. "I just ran too hard," I say.

I feel his dubiousness, though I can't see his face. "How long have you been running?"

"Four years," I say.

"I think you know your boundaries by now," he says. "Have you been eating?"

"I'm fine, Jackson," I say. "I promise. I was just dehydrated."

"Well, then," he says, picking up the water again. "Here."

I finish it while he looks at me, studying my face. I'm fully aware he knows there's something I've kept buried. But with my cheek still stinging with the aftermath, I'm not sure if I can bring it to the surface.

"I got excited about the role," I lie. I know I shouldn't be lying anymore. I was the one who said that in the first place. But I want to bury Andrew in the past and leave him there. If I dredge up what happened, it'll be real. He'll still exist. He'll still be a part of my life. "I overworked myself."

"You need to be careful," Jackson says. "If accepting this role is going to make you-"

"No," I say. "It won't. I'm not going to get bad again."

He pulls away and looks into my eyes. His dart from my left to my right, not settling.

"I'm not," I insist.

"You just…" he begins. "Something's off. Did something happen when you went to Andrew's? How did he take it?"

I take the blanket off the back of the couch and cover myself with it, lying down with my head at the opposite end. "I'm tired," I say. "I want to go back to sleep."

"April," Jackson says, more firmly. "How did Andrew take it?"

I shrug, closing my eyes. Andrew's handprint singes my skin.

Jackson is quiet for a long time, and though my eyes stay shut, I know I won't fall asleep. I'm wired, nervous and scared. My whole body is trembling with both fear and anticipation of what I know will come out sometime.

"I thought we were done keeping secrets," Jackson says, and he stands up from the couch. I open my eyes and watch him go into the kitchen, where he cracks open a water bottle. Comfortable, like he lives here. I like that. "You said so yourself."

"I'm overwhelmed," I say, pulling the blanket closer to my chin. "I'm scared of getting bad."

It's the truth. With the role in Chicago comes a lot of pressure. Going back to my hometown, where I made the name for myself, will be huge. I have a big reputation to keep afloat, and I don't feel ready.

"Babe, you'll be fine," Jackson says, coming around the back of the couch. He looks down at me, eyes soft.

I try and shove the thought away that I don't deserve him.

"I'm gonna be there the whole time. I live and work there, too. And I don't know what you think about this… but what if we moved in together?"

I blink at him. He chews his lower lip and worries it with his top teeth. I wonder how long he's been turning over this thought in his head.

Even though I mean to respond to his proposition, which I'm in favor of, the words slip from my mouth without permission.

"He hit me," I whimper.

The air in the room changes. Jackson's arms tense and grow rigid, and his eyes widen as he tips his head to one side, maybe in the hopes he heard me wrong.

"What?" he says.

"Andrew," I whisper. "He hit me." I press my hand to my cheek, wincing at the pain that is no longer there. "I told him everything. He slapped me. Right here."

In the blink of an eye, Jackson stomps to the door. I hear the rustle as he puts his shoes on, and before I can stop myself, I start sobbing louder than I've ever heard myself sob. I sit up from my lying down position and double over, forehead to my knees, and wail.

He hurries away from the door, tending to me instead. He sits down, pulls me into his arms, and holds me tight. Holds me in a way that lets me know that nothing will ever hurt me again.

"I got you," he says. "I'm gonna fucking kill him. I'm gonna beat the shit out of him; I should've while I had the chance." He strokes my back and kisses the round of my shoulder. "That piece of fuckin' garbage doesn't deserve to be on this earth. No one should ever lay hands on you, _no one_ , April. And he's going to suffer for it. I'll make sure of that."

With my face in his neck, I cling to him with everything I have. "I was so scared," I hiccup. "He came at me and hit me so hard. I went running to forget about it, and I… and I… I couldn't stop. I'm sorry. I'm sorry."

I can't catch my breath to speak any longer. Jackson rocks me back and forth, my body curled into the fetal position on his lap, and holds the back of my head.

"I'm not going anywhere," he says. "I got you. I got you right here. I'm not gonna go kill him until you're okay. I have you, baby. My sweet baby. I got you. I'm right here."

I breathe faster, hyperventilating while sucking air through my teeth. My body tightens and goes rigid, my hands go numb, and suddenly the situation turns on its head as I realize if I would've just gone there and left things cut and dry, he wouldn't have lashed out.

"I did it to myself," I say. "It was my fault. I ruin everything. I made him do it. I'd been lying; I had it coming." I shake my head and my hair tumbles. "I can't do this anymore. I can't be who I am, I can't take the role in Chicago, I can't do any of it. I can't do anything right. He hit me, Jackson," I sob. "He hit me. I let him."

I can't breathe. When I inhale, nothing comes, and it's the same when I exhale.

"In," Jackson says, taking my shoulders. "Through your nose. Out your mouth."

"I'm so scared," I cry, shaking violently.

"I'm right here," he says. "You're having a panic attack. It's alright. I'm here."

I grab hold to some oxygen and feel relieved as it courses through my body, in and out. The room still wobbles, my heart still races, but Jackson is here, my grounding force.

"Nothing is your fault," he says, taking my hands. "I know, right now it doesn't seem like that. Right now, everything is messed up. But you'll be okay. I promise."

"He hit me," I cry, and throw my arms around his neck and bury my face there. "He hit me."

"He knows he isn't safe," Jackson says. "He knows. And he's right."

…

In the middle of the night, Jackson and I lie in the bed that Andrew and I once shared. He cleaned the sheets and turned it over, though, so nothing is the same as it was. While he took care of that and made dinner, I stayed on the couch and stared ahead at the television, not watching the show that played on the screen.

I was numb all day. But now, in bed with him, I'm thawing.

As we lie next to each other, I trail my fingertips over his features while he closes his eyes and lets me.

"Where are your glasses?" I ask.

"My bag," he says. "I wear contacts now."

Without explaining, I get out of bed and fish them out. When I crawl back under the covers, I slip them on his face and he blinks to get used to them. I smile when he meets my eyes, and trace one lens.

"There you are," I say, and nuzzle my face into his neck.

"You wanna hear the most romantic story ever?" he asks a bit later, trailing one finger down my spine. I'm wearing a blue pair of bikini underwear and a t-shirt from college, my hair clean and damp.

"How we met?" I ask, voice soft.

"Hmm, no," he says.

"Then it can't be the most romantic," I say, ghost of a smile on my lips.

"Well, second best then," he continues. "So, this guy Orpheus goes to Hell to rescue his girlfriend from the devil, right? And the devil says he'll give her back on one condition. And-"

"How come it's always the guy rescuing?" I ask, cutting him off. "The roles should be interchangeable."

"Shh," he says. "It's just the story. So, the one condition is that as he leaves, he can't look back at her."

"But he does look back," I say. "And she's punished with eternal damnation. Everyone knows that story, babe… what's your point?"

"Can you let me have anything?" he asks, smiling and showing his teeth. I reach and touch the front two with the pad of my finger, and he kisses it absentmindedly. "My point is… I relate with the guy. I could never resist looking back at you."

I raise my eyebrows. "Even if you were punished to spend eternity with the devil?"

"No," he says, tracing my jaw and landing with his thumb on my chin. "I'd have to look. That one last time, just to make sure you're there." He kisses me, gentle and sweet. "I'll always look back for you."


	14. Chapter 14

**JACKSON**

April has fingernail scratches on her cheek.

She's self-conscious, so I haven't said anything in regards to them. I can tell they're on her mind, though, because it seems every time I look at her, she's absentmindedly touching her face.

We're packing up the penthouse, getting ready for her to move back to Chicago. When I look at her to flash a grin, say something random that popped into my head, my eyes find the scratches before anything else.

"I don't think I'll sell this place," she says, standing on tiptoe to reach a vase resting high on a bookshelf.

As she reaches, her shirt rides up her back and I walk over to help. "Here," I say, fingertips on her waist. "I got it."

She laughs breathily, stepping away. "Oh," she says. "Thanks."

I lift it down and hand it to her, and she dusts it off. As she picks up a wad of newspaper to wrap it in, I pick up where she left off.

"You don't wanna sell it?" I ask.

"No," she says, glancing around. "I don't need the money. And I don't know where my career will take me, you know? It might be nice to keep this place, as a backup." She looks at me quickly, shoving the newspaper into the opening of the vase. "If I ever had to come back, would you come with me?"

My mind spins. My firm is based in Chicago, and I'm not sure how I would go about relocating. It's not something we need to think about now, but all the same, I don't want to give the wrong answer. She's fragile enough as it is.

"Of course," I say, and I want to mean it. I think that's what counts, seeing as it's a hypothetical situation.

She trails her fingers over her cheek as she kneels to set the vase in a box. The living room, where we are right now, is almost all packed up. We've been working for a couple days now, nonstop. I've taken the week off work, planning to restart this coming Monday. She moves to Chicago over the weekend, and I'll be there to help.

After she stands again, she walks towards me and reaches for a hug. I pull her close, holding the back of her hair, and kiss her forehead. She looks up at me, lifting her chin, and wears a small smile as she pushes my glasses gently up the bridge of my nose.

"How come you stopped wearing these?" she asks. "They're so cute on you."

I scoff and playfully roll my eyes. "I'm a grown man," I say. "'Cute' isn't exactly the look I'm going for."

"It is when you're with me," she says sweetly, pinching her lips. "I love your glasses."

"I know you do," I say, then kiss her. "I stopped wearing them to make a new me, I guess. Marisa never knew me with them on, and when I'd wear them at night she'd always say she could barely recognize me."

"Bullshit," April says, running her fingertips over the bows. She kisses my cheek, lingering for a long moment, and I push her hair behind her shoulders.

"How did you manage to keep that J necklace on without spilling everything?" I ask, tracing the delicate chain around her neck.

She blinks her eyes open slowly, a nearly-drunk smile on her lips. "I told people the J stood for 'joy,'" she says.

I snort. "Now _that's_ bullshit," I say.

"I didn't say it was a good lie," she shrugs, giggling. Then, she says, "Hey. Do you still have that rock I gave you before your LSATs?"

I laugh incredulously. "Faith?" I ask.

She nods.

"I have it in a decorative plate thing on my desk," I say. "No one's ever asked about it."

She places her hands flat on my chest and pushes up on her toes to nudge my nose with hers. "So, what I'm getting here is that we're both bullshitters," she says, laughing.

"Guess so," I say, winding an arm around her to rest my hand on the small of her back, under her t-shirt. Her skin is warm and inviting, and I love trailing my thumb over the soft peach fuzz.

A while later, we move into her bedroom and work on boxing things up in there. April is in her walk-in closet, and I'm organizing her obscene amount of beauty products.

"So, how's this supposed to work?" she asks, popping her head out to look at me.

I have a strange, silver contraption in my hand that opens and closes like a pair of tongs. I squint at it, then up at her. "Honestly, I don't know," I say. "I thought you knew."

She cracks up, throwing her head back to expose her neck. "Not my eyelash curler," she says, sauntering out of the closet towards where I sit at her vanity. She gestures widely with her hands when she says, "This. The whole thing. We're moving in together in Chicago, but where? Your place?"

I shake my head, eyebrows lowered. "No, not there," I say. I don't think I need to explain for her to know why.

"Then where?" she asks. "A new place?"

"I was thinking that, yeah," I say. While I stay sitting, she comes and stands between my knees and I rest my hands on her hips while looking up at her.

"But we can't shop for houses 800 miles away," she says, nearing her face subtly towards mine before kissing my bottom lip, my chin.

"True," I say, tilting my head as she kisses the corner of my jaw and wraps her arms around my neck to sit on my lap. I situate on the small bench so she's comfortable, but admittedly it's not that great of a setup. But I don't say anything, I love having her close too much.

She smells like vanilla and peppermint; subtle but stronger when I drag my lips over the swell of her throat.

"So, what will we do in the meantime?" she asks, trailing her hands down my biceps.

"I guess stay at my place for a little bit," I say. "Is that okay?"

She nods, tracing the shell of my ears. "It probably won't take us long to find a place," she says.

"What are your parameters?" I ask, a glint in my eye.

She mirrors it. "A master bath with two sinks," she says. "I don't wanna fight with you in the morning putting on my makeup while you try and shave."

"Noted."

"A big tub, too," she says.

I squeeze her a little tighter, and she laughs softly.

"And a big shower."

"All the better to get clean with," I say.

"Exactly what I mean," she says, hands on the sides of my neck. "A good number of bedrooms, and a backyard, if we can." She leans forward and rests her forehead against mine, blinking into my eyes.

"A backyard?" I echo, pretending to be clueless when, in reality, I know exactly where her mind has gone. "What for?"

"Our babies," she says, smiling before kissing me. "Our tons and tons of babies."

I can't help but return her grin. "I was hoping you'd say that."

A bit later, she goes back into the closet and I continue working on packing up the toiletries she doesn't immediately need. We're working in silence, soft music playing in the background, when I hear a gasp from inside the closet.

"Oh, my god," she says.

"What?"

She walks out, holding what looks to be a group of photos in her hands. She's flipping through them, eyes shining as she goes. "Oh, my god…"

"April, what?"

"Look what I found," she says, and comes over to stand next to me.

She hands me the bundle of photos and my eyes widen, unable to believe what I'm looking at. Resting in my palms are the pictures that April and I took at the beach more than a decade ago, during winter after I flunked my mock LSAT exam. I remember knowing, right then, that she was the one. That there was nothing I wouldn't do to hold onto her for the rest of my life.

In the first photo, I have my arm wrapped around her from behind, and her eyes are squinted while wearing a huge smile on her face. As I flip through, I see us kissing each other's cheeks, kissing on the lips, then ones of her by herself as she runs at me from the lake with her arms outstretched as far as they go. Her mouth is open as she must have been laughing, and if I concentrate hard enough I can almost hear it. Her wild shrieking, the crash of the freezing waves on the solid shore, the hum of the wind in the background.

The last photo in the bunch is one she took by surprise. She's looking at the camera, but I'm looking at her like she's the only thing I see. And back then, she was.

I turn to her now, keeping the photos, to find her smiling. As I look at her, I realize she's always been the only one I see.

…

After we're done packing for the day, I'm resting on April's bed and she's in the bathroom. I hear the shower turn on and watch the room steam up, then she appears in the doorway with the light behind her, wearing nothing but a pair of low-rise black underwear.

"Are you coming?" she asks, arms tucked against her chest.

I sit up, deciphering what she's asking. She's standing there almost completely naked, inviting me to shower with her. We haven't had full-out sex since we were last together, and I can't help but wonder if that's what will happen tonight.

Seemingly reading my mind, she says, "I'm tired of not being with you, Jackson."

I stand up from the bed to strip off my shirt. When I get into the bathroom I watch her from behind, eyes roving over her birdlike shoulder blades, the dip between her ribcage and hips, the supple lower half of her ass cheeks not covered by her underwear. As she lets her hair down from its bun and shakes it out, I'm already half hard.

Her underwear come off quickly. I match her pace and follow her inside the shower, where she's smiling and standing under the stream of water.

"I can't resist you anymore," she says, hands flat on my chest.

I drink in the sight of her. Though years have passed, her body looks the same. And when I get my hands on her, she feels the same, too.

"Is this what you want?" I ask, making sure. I don't want to be blindsided, have this taken away. I want to make sure she's positive, because I am.

"More than anything," she says, and moves to kiss my neck.

She presses my back against the cool tile and works her way down my body, taking her time in all the right places. She tweaks my nipples with her thumb and first finger, then covers one with her mouth, sucking on it forcefully until I can't help but grunt with pleasure.

I'm fully hard now, and she takes advantage of it. With her mouth still attached to my chest, one hand slips down to grip the shaft confidently, stroking with purpose.

"Fuck," I breathe, one hand on her ass. My fingers dig in as she picks up speed, which earns me a soft whimper.

Sinking to her knees, she leaves my nipples and concentrates on my dick instead. While looking up in the way she knows I love, she smiles before taking the head between her lips and flattening her tongue out. Her teeth graze over it just slightly, and the water from the shower jet hammers onto her shoulders while she works.

When she hollows out her throat and lets it slip down, I can't think straight. Her mouth is warm, wet, and where I'm at is impossibly tight, especially as she moves up and down.

"Jesus Christ," I moan, a handful of her wet, darkened hair in one fist. "Shit, April."

As I stiffen and get closer to release, she pulls her mouth away and kisses above the base, low on my abdomen, while still pumping with her fist.

"You gonna come?" she asks, voice smooth as silk. Her lips are shiny and puffy; I could look at her like this forever.

"If you keep… fuck…" I grunt, unable to form full sentences.

"Come on, baby," she whispers, sucking on the tip and popping away with a wet sound. "Come for me."

With an erratic jerk of my hips, I shoot off while her lips are wrapped around me. She pulls off and kisses the tip while I'm still going, smearing the clearish-white liquid around her mouth and doing nothing to wipe it away. Even as I come down and soften, she stays on her knees until I pull her back up and kiss the life out of her.

I'm breathless at the same time, though. I taste myself on her lips, on her tongue; starved for more of her, all of her. I open my mouth wide and forcefully kiss her, pinning her against the tile in the way she had me, my hands on her wrists on either side of her head.

She smiles through a sigh, tipping her chin up as I lick and bite at her dripping neck. I'm pressed right up against her, which means I feel the pricks of her nipples over my chest as she writhes under my weight, letting me overpower her.

When I move my hands from her wrists, she keeps them up. I hold her ribcage in my grip instead, lowering to get my mouth on her breasts. They're bigger than I remember, which I'm not complaining about, and rounder, too. I hold one in my hand while capturing the swell of the other in my mouth, sucking hard and pulling on the nipple with my teeth.

"Shit," she whines, lowering one arm to swipe it over my head. The water is pounding onto my back, but I barely feel it in comparison to the electricity of her touch. "God, that feels good."

"You like that?" I ask, licking her nipple with a wide, flat tongue.

She nods desperately, looking at me with her eyebrows at an angle. I suck on the skin around her nipple, purposefully leaving hickeys behind, and kiss my way down her stomach until I get to her bellybutton.

Then, without warning, I flip her around and steal the breath from her. She plants her hands on the wall and arches her back, opening herself for me, and I press kisses down her spine until I get to the curve of her ass. I squeeze the muscle in both hands roughly, and she moans so quietly I barely hear it.

"Do you need me to get a condom?" I ask, stroking myself to make sure I stay as rock hard as I've grown to be.

She shakes her head. "I'm on the pill," she murmurs. "I just… I need you inside me, right now. Please, god, Jackson."

I smirk cockily, taking my dick in my hand and tapping it on her ass a few times before slipping inside her.

Immediately, her neck goes slack and her head falls forward. She pushes her hips back and whines, getting used to my size again.

"Fuck," she sighs, and I tighten my grip on her hip creases. Her sides move in and out dramatically as she tries to catch her breath, and I start to move before she can. "Oh, god, Jackson," she whimpers, fingernails clawing at the slippery tile.

"Yeah?" I grunt, eyelids fluttering from how amazing she feels. Over the years, I forgot what it felt like to be inside her. But now, all the memories come rushing back. No one else has a body like she does.

"Uh-huh," she says, voice all pitchy.

I stand her up straight and press her front against the wall, scooping my hips up against hers while overlapping her hands. Her breath comes in disjointed bursts as she shoves her hips back against my pelvis, keeping pace. She could always keep up; I'm dominant in bed, but she's not one to sit back and take it. She loves a challenge, and so do I.

My hands sneak to her breasts, and I grab them as tightly as I can while she throws her head back to rest on my shoulder. I keep my hips going, changing up the pace every now and then, while I play with her nipples and bite at her neck.

I know she's close when she holds her breath for a few moments before letting it go. "Harder," she moans.

I take her words to heart. I slam into her, listening to her voice break as our bodies collide, and wrap my arms around her damp waist. I'm not sure who starts to come first, but I'm beyond pleased when we have our orgasms around the same time - her body contracting around my dick while I empty my load inside her heat.

When I pull out, she drops her forehead to the wall and breathes heavily. I'm about to speak, but she gets there first.

"God, I missed that," she whispers, turning around. Her face is flushed, which highlights the four subtle scratches. "I missed you."

"You got me now," I say, cupping her jaw to kiss her - soft, much differently than a few moments ago. "And I got you."

After we get out of the shower, I lay her down on the bed and spread her legs slowly, licking my way up her thighs until I find her pulsing center. Delving my tongue as deep as it'll go, I lose myself in the way she tastes, the way she sounds and responds to me, and how unbelievable her body is. I capture all her moans and sighs, pleas and whimpers, curse words muttered under her breath. We've been apart for a long time - there's a lot we have to make up for.

Unlike the shower sex, when I go down on April I'm not rough or hurried. I keep her thighs apart and slip each hand underneath her body to cup her ass and bring her center closer, all while she covers her face and tries to breathe.

I make her wait. I don't tease her to be coy; I drag out my ministrations so she can experience pleasure longer, because it's what she deserves. I take my time licking her outer lips, finding my way to her opening, sucking on the sensitive skin of her inner thighs. By the time I get her clit in my mouth, she's swollen and ready for climax. There's a fine sheen of perspiration on her body, and her drying hair is matted to her forehead with it.

"You're gonna kill me," she moans, lifting her pelvis while I squeeze her ass. "I wanna come so bad, baby… baby, baby, please…"

I'm relit hearing those words, so I do what I know will get her there. I pull on the skin of her lower belly to expose the pink inside of her, and suck her clit between my lips. I hum against it, which earns me a long, low moan, then rub insistent circles with my thumb.

Her hips work double time against my mouth, jolting my head back from the power behind her thrusts, but I stay where I am. Her hands find the back of my skull as she pleads desperately, not letting me move, and I don't try to.

"Oh, god, yeah," she moans, eyes pinched shut. "That feels so good…"

Her thighs close in and her feet touch my shoulder blades, but I nudge her legs back out. I smile to myself as I think about how roughly she's essentially fucking my face - I'm not the only one who likes to try on dominance.

"Mmm, faster," she whimpers, one foot in the middle of my back. "Faster!"

While she orgasms, I keep my mouth where it is. The rhythm of her hips changes as it ripples through her, erratic now, and as it becomes more powerful, her back lifts before falling back down in a heap. Though her fingernails dig into my scalp, I don't stop licking her until what I've done is coating my lips and chin and she's lying, boneless and open, above me.

"I love you," she breathes, as I hover over her. She trails her fingers down my chest and lays a hand flat over my heartbeat. "I love you so much."

I tuck my face into her neck and kiss her pulse point, getting a breathy smile in return.

"I love you more," I say, and don't mean it in the usual way. I don't mean that I love her more than she loves me, but instead, that I love her more than I ever have, or ever will, love anything else.

…

We clean up and lie in bed a while later, both shirtless. April lays on her back with her arms above her head, smiling while she recounts an old memory of us. In all honesty, I'm not really listening, just hearing the rise and fall of her sweet voice and watching how her smile grows and changes.

I study her face; the familiar slopes, freckles and shade of her lips. I wander to her eyes, which are sparkling with the memory she's detailing. She laughs at herself, and I feel it more than I hear it with my hand on her sternum, in the valley between her breasts.

When she turns her head to look at me, time moves slow. The smile dies from her lips, but not in a bad way. Instead, her expression changes to something more introspective as she nudges my nose with hers, inching closer to intertwine our legs.

I keep one hand over her heart even as she turns on her side to face me. Right now, she's soft and vulnerable, much different from the way she presents herself to fans, to the world. This is the version of her that only I know, that I knew first.

As I swipe my thumb over her cheekbone, I tell myself I'll do anything to keep her safe. To keep the light burning behind her eyes. I won't let something put it out, not again.

After a long period of silence, she touches my lower lip and traces the swell of it with one finger. "What're you thinking about?" she asks.

"You," I answer, easily.

She lifts her eyes from my mouth to meet mine. "What about me?"

I shrug, then kiss her gently. "You're special to me," I say.

Her eyes glisten as she pulls herself close to my chest, throwing an arm around my waist while pressing her forehead against my neck.

"You're special to me, too," she says, then kisses my warm skin.

"I really love you," I mutter, and my stomach buzzes with butterflies, though I don't know why.

"I really love you, too," she whispers, looking up to smile at me. No teeth, just lips. "And if you're worried about me going anywhere or… or leaving you again, you don't have to worry about that, okay? Things are different now."

I nod. Maybe that is what I'm worried about, subconsciously. That I'll only have her for a moment, not a lifetime. And even a lifetime doesn't seem like enough.

"Okay," I whisper.

"Here," she says. "Let me take these."

She takes off my glasses and sets them on the nightstand, lifting up to kiss my closed eyelids once she does. I've never let my walls down around another person like I do around April. She gives me the power to be soft, be vulnerable, without feeling weak.

While she falls asleep, I trace the dip of her spine as her body softens. Her breathing comes easier, her feet twitch, and her arm grows heavy on my waist. As I lie there awake, my mind inevitably wanders to who hurt her.

The cheek with the scratches on it faces up, exposed. It's slack and smooth, but I don't reach out and touch it. All I do is stare, and know something needs to be done.

And there's no one better to do it than me.

I slip out of bed, picking up her arm and laying it down on the mattress. I grab my glasses and watch for any signs of wakefulness, but she doesn't even stir.

I get redressed and pause in the entryway, trying to remember where April told me Andrew lives. I go through the list neighborhoods in my head: SoHo, Upper East Side, Greenwich Village, Tribeca… until I remember that he lives in Lower Manhattan in a modest building with a brick face.

Knowing that won't help, I Google his name, and his address isn't hard to find under the White Pages. I raise my eyebrows and close my phone after screenshotting it. Technology has made things so easy.

I leave the house and get in a cab, letting my rage build inside me during the ride. I picture April's face when she told me, how ashamed she was; I picture those claw marks on her cheek, the way she hid them subconsciously with her hand or hair the day after, when they bloomed.

By the time we pull up to his building, my fists are bunched and my blood is boiling. I pay the driver, get out, and stare up at it for a while before finally going in and finding my way to #7.

I knock on the door at a reasonable volume. I have the urge to slam on it, knock it down, but I don't want to catch a neighbor's attention. I know how it'd look from an outsider's perspective - a black man knocks down a white man's door in the middle of the night and starts a brawl. No, I'm the last person who needs something like that on my record. I'm a lawyer, for Christ's sake. I know my case wouldn't hold up.

I knock again, assuming he's asleep and I'm waking him. It takes a few minutes, but eventually I hear footsteps approach the door and pause in front of it.

"Who's there?" he asks.

I bristle at the sound of his voice alone.

"Jackson Avery," I say.

There's no need for pretenses. He's going to find out anyway, and I'll make sure he opens this door.

"It's the middle of the night," he says.

"I'm aware," I say. "And I need to talk to you."

"I'm not interested," he says.

"Look, pussy," I say, taking a step closer to the door. I take a breath, reminding myself not to let my anger take control. "If you don't get your ass out here in two seconds, I'm calling the police and reporting the mark you left on April's face."

The doorknob turns and opens a crack. His face appears, pale and sullen.

"I'd like to talk face-to-face," I say. "If that's alright by you. We're men, Andrew, aren't we? We can deal with this like men."

The door opens further and he appears, dressed in blue pajama pants and a long-sleeved gray shirt. For some reason, in this getup with his arms crossed, he appears even smaller than before.

"What do you want?" he snaps.

I tower over him, and that's no accident.

"You have some balls talking to me like that after what you did to April," I say. "I didn't come here to play nice. I came here to teach you a fucking lesson."

He rolls his eyes and scoffs, but his arms stay crossed. He's protecting himself - whether or not that's conscious, I don't know.

"Did you get that from a movie?" he asks, eyebrows raised.

I narrow my eyes. "Seriously, dude? You're gonna stand here and play it cool after you hit a woman? How can you live with yourself knowing you hurt her?"

"I'm sure you made it all better, though, didn't you?" he says. "I'm sure she came running to you, which is just what you wanted. Maybe you should be thanking me."

I gape at him. "You're a righteous piece of shit," I say.

"That's funny coming from you, seeing as you came all the way across town just to 'teach me a lesson.' You couldn't have just left it, could you? You had to be the big man, the one who puts the bad guy in his place. Protect her honor, all that."

"She doesn't need protecting," I say. "She's not a damsel in distress."

"Then why isn't she here right now?"

"Because you hit her in the fucking face!" I shout, then back off to breathe. "She's afraid. She'll be fine. She'll get over it. But right now, she's ashamed and she's fucking terrified of you. She came here to smooth things over once before, and you hit her. Why the fuck would she come back again?"

He gives me a look, but doesn't respond.

"And by the way she acted, my guess is that it wasn't the first time."

Something flashes across his face a - a bit of worry, a dash of nervousness.

"I never laid a hand on her before that day," he says.

"Never?" I ask. "Not once? Not something like this?" I take his upper arms and squeeze as tight as I can, shaking him once so his head rattles. Surprisingly, he doesn't fight me. "Or this?" I ask, and push him back so he hits the doorframe.

He stares at me with malice, gasping when he hits, then holds the back of his skull.

"You're telling me you never got rough with her? Ever?"

"She was in my face!" he roars, growing more confident and taking a step forward. "And who do you think you are, anyway?"

"To you, I'm a fuckin' lawyer," I say. "I make more money in a year than you'll ever see in your pitiful life, and I could make a case against you in a heartbeat. But right now, I'm April's boyfriend."

He rolls his eyes. "As if I didn't see that coming."

"You think you're really something, don't you?" I retort. "You hit a woman, and suddenly you're big and bad. If you're as badass as you think you are, why don't you hit me?"

He grits his teeth and shakes his head. "I'm not gonna hit you," he says.

"Why not?" I taunt. "Why not, pussy? Are you scared now? Scared, because I'm not 100 pounds and half a foot shorter than you?"

"I told you, she got in my face!" he bellows.

"What'll happen if I get in your face?" I ask, doing exactly that. I step forward, look down at him, and he raises a fist only to have it blocked and slammed against the wall. "That's what I fuckin' thought," I growl.

He wrenches it out of my grip only because I let him. "It didn't mean anything," he says, face growing red.

I can't contain myself anymore. Hearing those words, I wind back and, with a closed fist, sock him right in the eye. Hard, no holds barred.

"Did that mean something?" I ask, fuming, teeth bared.

He holds his eye, in disbelief of what I did. By now, I'm past the point of no return. As he recovers from the first hit, I punch him dead in the other eye.

"Did that?" I continue, panting. My chest is heaving, and I have to reel myself in. I can't keep going, or else I won't be able to stop. The only thing that keeps me from beating him to death is April's face in my mind; I know that's not what she'd want.

I taught him a lesson. That's what I came here to do.

I take a step closer; now he cowers at the sight of me. "You contact her, and I'll stop being a lawyer. If I see your face again, I'll forget any law I know and I'll beat you so hard you won't remember who you are. I'll make sure you don't wake up."

He doesn't nod, but by the way he's looking at me, it's obvious what I'm saying sinks in.

"Don't you dare ever lay your hands on another woman again," I say. "Ever."

He looks away; he can't meet my eyes. I don't need him to, though. I walk off without looking back, and feel like I did what I set out to do.

…

When I get back to April's place, I take off my shoes and feel the silence that's settled over the house. She's still asleep, there's no question about that.

I go into the bedroom and change into a pair of sweatpants I can sleep in. I glance over at April on the bed; she's kicked off the covers while lying on her side, faced away, spine curved in toward itself.

I walk around to the side of the bed I'd been laying on and set my glasses on the nightstand, right where she'd put them before. When one knee depresses the mattress, April stirs and opens her eyes, rubbing them while squinting at me with confusion.

"Cold," she says, rubbing her upper arms

She's still only in underwear without a shirt on, so it doesn't surprise me. I reach onto the floor and grab a shirt of mine, help her into it, and she settles again, gravitating towards me.

I pull her close and she slips her leg between mine, nuzzling her nose against my chest.

"Where'd you go?" she asks, voice bleary and half-asleep.

I inhale deeply, running my fingers through her hair. "I had to go and fix something," I say.

I'll explain it to her in detail in the morning, when she can process it. Right now, she's mostly all the way gone and won't be able to wrap her head around it. But when she wakes up tomorrow, I'll tell her the whole thing. No secrets.

"In the middle of the night?" she slurs.

I kiss her forehead, letting my lips linger longer than needed. "It couldn't wait," I say.

"Oh," she says, sighing. "Okay." There's a long pause before she says, "Night, baby."

I kiss her one more time, closing my eyes and breathing her in before saying, "Goodnight."


	15. Chapter 15

**APRIL**

The time spent in Jackson's apartment is short. Being that we have a clear idea of what kind of living space we want and where we want it, it doesn't take us long to find a house that suits us.

Living in Lincoln Park isn't something we're used to, but that's the neighborhood we choose. Not only is it more family-friendly, but it's quieter, safer, and feels like home. From the moment I stood on the sidewalk in front of 1431 West Wrightwood Avenue and saw the 'FOR SALE' sign propped in the front yard, I had a feeling this place was meant for us.

The movers helped get all of our stuff here, but we take it upon ourselves to unpack it. Jackson works in the living room, getting the electronics set up, while I'm upstairs in the master bedroom.

Sitting on the floor, I can't help but think how strange it all is. We grew from strangers flirting in a deli, teenagers essentially, to now sharing the same space and living together. We bought a house. We're real adults. And though I've done plenty of other things in my life to earn me that title, it still doesn't feel quite real.

I make up our bed first, so at least we'll have someplace to sleep tonight. Instead of using either of our mattresses or comforters, we bought brand new to match the room, which is painted a light gray. Right now, the walls are empty without pictures frames; that's one of the first things on my to-do list.

That list is long. Whenever I start thinking about it, I feel so bogged down by the numerous tasks that I can't concentrate on a single one. Jackson has told me time and time again over the past few weeks: _just take it one step at a time._

With me, that's easier said than done.

After the bed is made, I make my way into the closet to unpack and hang up our clothes. I finish with mine relatively quickly because I know where everything goes, then move onto Jackson's.

I've never known a man who owned so many shoes. He hasn't just filled one suitcase with them, but four. All packed neatly, meticulously, ranging between Air Jordans to designer loafers that are shinier than anything I've seen before in my life.

Unsurprisingly, joined with mine, not all of Jackson's shoes fit on the shoe rack lining the floor. I sigh and step back, attempting to visualize a different way to organize it, but there's no way that both our full collections can stay.

"Baby," I call, sitting cross-legged on the floor. I laugh to myself, remembering how big the house is compared to what I'm used to. He has no hope of hearing me.

I stand up and walk to the edge of the stairs, then try again.

"Baby?"

"Yeah? I'm in the living room."

"I know," I say. "Um… I have an issue up here."

"What is it?"

"Can you come to the stairs?"

A few seconds later, Jackson appears under the balcony on the first floor, looking up at me. "What's up?" he asks.

"You have a shoe problem," I say, point blank.

He chuckles. "I wouldn't necessarily call it a _problem_ ," he says.

"I would," I argue. "There are so many, there's not room for all our shoes. I already put mine down, and not even half of yours fit." I sigh. "You need to downsize, babe."

He raises his eyebrows. "You have a lot, too. I've seen your collection."

"It's nowhere near the size of yours," I say. "Plus, I need all mine."

"I need mine, too," he says.

"Why do you need fifteen different colors of Air Jordans?' I ask.

"They're not just different colors, they're different-" He cuts himself off. "Never mind. I'll go through them soon."

"I'm not trying to be bossy," I say, waving a hand. "It's just a little obscene."

He nods and walks away, and even without him coming up with something else to say, I know he's mad. I frown as I go back to the closet, trying to convince myself that it's fine - we're going to have domestic spats now that we're living together. It won't all be smooth sailing from here on out just because on the surface, everything is falling into place. I know it's not that easy.

But I might have underestimated how hard it'll be.

We order a pizza that night and when it comes, we sit together at the table after being apart for the better part of the day.

"Did you see the shower in the master bath?" I ask, chewing on my crust. "It's huge."

He glances at me, then back to his pizza. "I was barely in there today," he says. "You were. But I saw it during the tour. Looked awesome."

I nod, sighing through this tense silence. "I hung all our clothes up," I say. "The ones that should be hung, obviously. All the like, t-shirts, pajamas, jeans and stuff I put in either of our dressers."

He nods. "Sounds good," he says. "Thanks for doing that."

"Yeah," I say, then pick a pepperoni off and nibble on the edges. "Jackson…" I sigh, trying to think of the right words. "I don't want our first night here to be a fight."

He nudges his glasses up and looks at me attentively. "I'm not fighting," he says. "I'm eating."

"You're mad at me, though," I mutter.

"What, about the shoes?"

I nod. "I can see it on your face."

He smirks a bit, then chuckles and shakes his head. "Nah," he says. "I'm not mad. Annoyed, maybe. But I can see why I need to get rid of some."

"You're close to hoarder-level," I say.

His eyebrows scrunch a bit. "Well, I'm pretty sure there's another aspect of it, too."

I shoot him a confused look. "What do you mean?"

He leans back in his chair. "You didn't really react before, when I told you what I did to Andrew. I'm pretty sure you're punishing me now. Am I close?"

I narrow my eyes. "What?" I say. "I wasn't even… no, Jackson." I run my hands through my hair. "I don't like what you did, obviously. But it's done now. He's not going to press charges and we don't have to fight him in court, it's already settled. I'm grateful for what you did, I felt that anger too, but I told you it upset me. But I'm over it. Honestly, I wasn't even thinking about it. You just have too many damn shoes."

He breaks into quiet laughter, which soon grows louder. "Oh," he says, leaning forward with his elbows on the table. "Well, sure then. I can find some old ones to donate."

"And you say _I'm_ dramatic," I giggle, and shove his foot under the table.

…

Once rehearsals start, I consume my character like I always do. I start by reading the play, of course, but I don't find live versions of it to watch. I don't want to base my interpretation of Ivy from someone else's performance, so instead I watch the film version, with Meryl Streep and Julia Roberts.

Jackson comes in as it plays, sitting on the couch while I'm on the carpet, notebook open in front of me. Every few minutes when Ivy is on screen, I pause to write notes so I don't miss anything.

"Babe," Jackson says.

I look over my shoulder to find him still in work clothes. I guess, today, I hadn't heard him come home and didn't greet him like usual. He's wearing a charcoal gray dress shirt and black dress pants, though now the shirt is untucked. He looks tired, but handsome.

"Yeah?" I say. "Hi. Sorry, I was kinda lost in this. I'm glad you're home."

I shuffle over on my knees and plant my hands on his thighs, craning my neck to give him a long kiss.

We speak at the same time after we pull away.

"How was your day?"

"Would you mind not pausing it so much?"

I furrow my eyebrows and say, "Oh."

"It seems like a good movie," he says. "But with you pausing every five seconds, I can't keep up with what's going on."

"I have to write notes," I say, gesturing to the paper. "It's how I work."

He makes a small sound, and I don't try and decode it.

"If you're annoyed, you don't have to stay," I say, looking back down and finishing a word I'd been in the middle of.

I feel his tension rise. "I wanna spend time with you," he says. "And you're always doing stuff with your play, so this is me trying."

"And I appreciate that," I say.

"You barely ever talk about anything else," he notes.

"I just asked how your day was," I say emphatically, looking back up.

Over the past two weeks since we've moved in, our relationship has been in an odd, transitional period. Like we can't get comfortable with each other, like we've started at square one all over again. I don't know what to make of it. It seems like I'm always walking on eggshells around him, and he me.

"It was good," he says.

"What'd you do?"

"Worked on the McCreedy case," he says. "I was in a meeting with the client all morning, trying to convince her that a guilty plea isn't necessarily a bad thing. Remember, I told you that last week? She's dead set against it, but the jury isn't gonna see her case like I see it. That's what I keep telling her."

I rack my brain to try and remember him telling me this before, but admittedly, it doesn't ring a bell. I don't say anything, though.

"I'm sorry she doesn't see your side," I say. "Oh! I have something exciting to tell you. Mark called."

"Mark Sloan?" Jackson asks.

"Yeah," I say. "Somehow, he heard we moved and he wants to get together. I said I'd wait and talk to you about figuring out a day."

"Alright," he says, sounding pleased but confused. "Haven't seen him in forever. I'll look at my calendar."

"No weekdays, nights, or Saturdays, please," I say. "I have rehearsal."

The air about him changes again. "So, what does that leave us?"

I look up from the notebook that had caught my attention again. "Mornings, or Sundays…?" I say. "No need to snap."

"Sorry," he says, rubbing his temples. "It's just… this is a lot, April."

"What's a lot?"

He gestures vaguely. "This," he says. "You're getting in too deep again. It's consuming your life. It's like you don't notice anything else while you have a production going on."

I purse my lips. "This is my job," I say.

"I know," he says. "And I'm not trying to undermine that. At all. I just… I get worried, because I know how things get when you're too invested."

"There's no such thing as 'getting too invested,'" I say. "I'm devoted. That's why I get roles."

He sighs. "That's not what I'm trying to say. When you get in over your head, that's what I mean. I don't want you to get to a place you can't come back from."

The hair on my arms stands on end. I don't like bringing up the fact that I break when I shoulder too much. I'd like to think I can handle anything life throws, even though I know that's not true. But even so, I don't like to cut myself slack. I like to pile it on until nothing else fits.

"I'm fine," I say. "I'm in a good place. You don't have to worry about me."

"I'm not worrying," he says.

"The look on your face says different."

"I'm just thinking, that's all," he says. "Wouldn't you rather be safe than sorry? Wouldn't you rather slow down now than have to take a week off to recover later?"

"I won't have to recover from anything, because nothing's wrong," I say, then gather my things. "Finish the movie, if you want. I'm going upstairs."

"April," he says, calling my name as he looks over the back of our new couch. "Come on. I didn't mean to start something."

"I don't like feeling like you don't trust me," I say, pausing. "I did this for ten years without you, with no help. You don't have to look after me like I'm a delicate little flower, because I know how to handle myself. Okay?"

His shoulders deflate and his face softens. When he nods, something changes in his eyes. "Okay," he says. "I'm sorry. I'm not trying to hover or baby you. I just… I get worried."

I walk back into the living room, notebook still pressed to my chest. "I'm sorry for snapping," I say. "I don't wanna fight, either. I want things to be good between us, like they were."

I sit next to him on the couch and lean on his shoulder. He kisses my hair and exhales, rubbing his thumb in circles on my upper arm. "We'll be fine," he says. "We just have to get to know each other all over again. In a way."

"I don't know if you're up for it," I say, laughing softly. "I can be a real piece of work."

"Well, so can I," he says.

He turns the movie back on, and I keep the notebook closed while I follow the storyline, taking his hand after few minutes. I lean heavier against him, close my eyes, and let my two favorite things come together.

…

Once rehearsals get intense, our schedules don't coincide with one another. Jackson leaves before I get up in the morning, and I come home when he's already in bed at night. I used to try and wake up with him, but I found it made me too sluggish later in the day. Now, I let myself sleep in and get up with time to go running, shower, and make the 10am call.

Like usual, as I walk into the kitchen rubbing my eyes, there's a full coffee mug with a banana next to it, both resting atop a note Jackson wrote. He leaves this for me every morning, and somehow miraculously, the coffee is always still hot.

I take a sip as I read the note he left me today.

 _Hey firecracker, have a good day. I'm working late so maybe I'll catch you for dinner. Hopefully. If I don't, I'll still try and be awake when you get home. Have a good day, I love you. -J_

I trace the edges and smile, tucking it into the pocket of my pajama pants. I go about my morning routine as I do every day, and once I'm ready to go to rehearsal I have my head on straight. I'm in work mode, professional mode, which makes the day pass quickly.

I don't lose energy while I work because I have to be on all the time. I can't lose the fire in my eyes, because that's what I'm known for. For the hours upon hours I'm at the theater working with my castmates, I don't feel an ounce of exhaustion. But once I'm in the backseat of the car on the way home, I feel like I've been hit by a truck.

Today included a lot of deep digging on who our characters are as people and finding ways to relate to them, to bring those qualities out in the way we portray who they are. And after that, we ran the same scene - the first dinner scene - over and over and over again. I could recite those lines in my sleep by now, and I'd be surprised if I haven't before.

I drag my feet into the house and set my stuff down, noticing that the kitchen is tidier than I left it this morning. It's unlike me to leave a space dirty, but I was in a rush and my mind wasn't focused on domestic problems. Instead, I was wondering if I could qualify myself as completely 'off-book' yet, or not. I discovered, at rehearsal, I'm not there quite yet. Luckily, I hadn't boasted I was.

The house is silent, which tells me Jackson is asleep. It makes me sad that we don't get to catch up on each other's days right now, when we're both on opposing clocks, but tonight he won't miss out on much. I'll be in the same state he's in, hopefully soon.

I take a quick shower to rinse off my sweat from the day, then change into my pajamas that consist of a ratty college t-shirt of Jackson's and a pair of boyshort underwear he bought me a couple weeks ago. They're gray with dark blue stripes, and the most comfortable thing I've ever owned.

Pushing my hair behind my shoulders, I come out of the bathroom to see Jackson tucked into his half of the bed while resting on his side, facing me. I smile at his unassuming face, then walk around to get in on my side next to the window.

I try to be as gentle as I can, feeling so relieved when my body hits the mattress and I'm able to close my eyes. I let out a long sigh, turn to my right, and tuck my arms near my chest as I drift off.

Before I can, though, Jackson shifts. He flips from one side to the other, sighing as he goes, and throws an arm over my waist to pull me closer. I smile to myself, finding it sweet that he seeks me out in his sleep, and push my back against his chest to assure him I'm here.

But then, I realize he's not asleep. I feel lips on my neck - slow, wet kisses with tongue, and a hand sneak to the front of my underwear before subtly slipping inside.

"Mm, Jackson," I whisper, slowly wriggling away. "Not tonight. I'm really tired."

He takes his hand out of my underwear and sighs, flipping onto his back. I frown, then look over my shoulder at him.

"What?" I say, cutting through the darkness.

"I've barely seen you all week," he says, hands folded over his ribcage. "I don't think it's a crime to want some time with you."

"It's not," I say.

"Okay," he says, and rolls over to how he'd been lying when I first came in. I stare at his back for a moment, trying to think of what to say, but then decide I'm too tired to come up with anything worthwhile.

The next day plays out in the same manner as the one preceding - cup of coffee, banana and note in the morning, my run, then rehearsals. I'm the same brand of tired as always, but happy this time. We made some major breakthroughs, and my progress is on the up and up. I'm proud of the work I did, and I want to carry my good mood home with me.

It's late, and the house is silent once again. It doesn't surprise me that Jackson is asleep, but I want to make last night up to him. He's right; we haven't been able to spend much time together, and I don't like the way that feels, either. But I think he has a harder time wrapping his head around that fact than I do.

I take a shower and crawl into bed. This time, he's lying on his back and if my movements woke him at all, he doesn't show it. I sit on my knees and watch him for a moment, checking for any signs of disturbance, but there are none. Not even so much as the twitch of an eyelid.

So, I make a move and lift one knee to straddle his hips. He inhales deeply as I rest my body weight on top of him, and opens his eyes when I lean forward and kiss his warm neck. I stay there for a moment, tracing slow, deliberate paths with my tongue over his Adam's apple before sitting up straight again.

He grunts softly, squinting like I've woken him from a deep slumber. And maybe, I have. But I don't regret it.

"What're you doing?" he mumbles.

"Seducing my boyfriend," I say, grinding my hips slightly in the way he likes. "I miss you, too, baby."

His jaw stiffens as he easily lifts me off, away from him. I rest on my knees by his side, where I'd been before, and look at him with confusion.

"What?" I say. "Why?"

"Not tonight," he says, eyes glinting with anger in the low light. "I'm really tired."

I recognize the words I'd said to him just last night, thrown back in my face. "Okay, Jackson, I get it," I say. Rage boils inside me as he turns the other way, the streetlight from the window shining off the bare skin of his back.

"There's nothing to get," he says.

I pinch my lips together and close my eyes for a moment as I try to contain myself. "Yes, there is," I say, teeth gritted together. "Was this a mistake?"

He looks over his shoulder, but doesn't flip all the way back around. "What're you talking about?"

I throw my hands up and let them fall to hit my legs. "This," I say. "Moving in together, trying to be a couple again. Was it a mistake? Was it a stupid decision? Because right now, I gotta admit, I feel pretty fuckin' stupid."

He sighs with an open mouth, letting his eyes roam my face without giving a verbal response. I can't read his mind, either. The expression on his face is oddly calm with layers upon layers underneath.

"What, now you're just gonna lay there," I say. "Not say anything? Not respond at all?" I shake my head. "You're not taking me seriously."

He sits up, back against the headboard, and looks at me defiantly. "I don't know how you can say that," he says, finally. He spits the words out like they taste awful. "How can you say that when my relationship with you is the most important thing I have?" He shakes his head. "You've never said something like that before. Maybe you're projecting."

"What?" I snap. "How could you assume that? When our relationship has driven my life since the day we met?"

"Don't be dramatic, April," he says.

"I'm not," I say. "And anyway, it's what I do best."

"We all know that."

"What's that supposed to mean?" I exclaim.

"You know exactly what I mean," he says. "When you have a job, that's all you care about. I might as well just not exist."

"Oh, poor you," I say. "I don't complain when you're neck-deep in what you do. It's totally different, then, right?"

"It is," he says. "Because mine doesn't consume me the way yours consumes you. You don't think about anything else. Not a single other person. All I want is to be close to you, hang out with you, do fuckin' whatever with you, and you won't have it. If you're home, which… don't bank on that, you're in your own little world. And you've made it blatantly clear I'm not welcome."

I shake my head. "Stop," I say. "You sound like a child."

"You don't even try!" he says, vein bulging in his forehead. "Over these past few weeks, I've done nothing but support you. Put breakfast out for you in the morning, told you I'd be here at night if you need me-"

"But that's what you hate," I interject. "Right? That I don't need you. That I can do this on my own. For some reason, you can't stand that. And I can't figure out why."

"You're so off-base," he says, shaking his head. "All I want is for you to let me in. What we used to have… we'd support each other. At the very least, you'd listen to me."

"You're not listening to _me_ , now," I say. "I'm saying that I'm fine on my own. I don't need you to coddle me. I'm a grown woman, and I've been performing for years now. I don't need help. I don't need a keeper."

"I'm not talking about that. I'm talking about a support system," he says, venom in his voice. "If we're gonna be anything to each other, don't you think support is pretty integral?"

"Of course, I want your support-"

"You've made it clear you don't," he says.

"You say I'm not trying, but you're not trying to see things my way, either," I say. "You're not listening. You always think I want what you want. Sometimes, I don't."

"I never said that," he says.

"You didn't need to," I reply. "Why can't you understand that there's nothing about me that needs to be fixed? I'm fine. I'm doing fine. Just because I work long hours-"

"Maybe I'm not talking about you!" he roars. "I need you. I want to spend time with you. Why aren't you hearing me when I say that?"

"I can't give you what you want all the time!" I insist.

"I'm not asking for much," he says. "I thought by living together, we could make things work."

"I already asked if it was a mistake," I say.

"It wasn't a mistake," he says. "At least, I don't think so. But apparently, you do."

"I don't," I say. "I just can't have you being so demanding when I have a ton of other people asking things of me, too. You're supposed to be the one I come home to and don't have to impress."

"You never have to impress me," he says. "And I do wanna be the one you come home to. But you never come home."

"I'm home right now," I say. "I come home every night."

"Not really," he says. "Your body might be here, but your head isn't. And I don't know how many times I've said I miss you."

"I said that, too, just now, and you pushed me away," I counter. "You're not making sense."

"You can't just have me when you want me," he spits. "It doesn't work like that. What we're doing isn't equal, and you know it. You can't just leave me on a warmer and take my presence for granted. You might've gotten that idea when we came back together after all those years, because I was ready. I'd been waiting. I didn't know it, but I'd been waiting for you. But you had been, too. The rest of our lives isn't going to be like that."

"I know," I say. "Clearly."

He shakes his head, letting out a long sigh as he lays back down. "I have a hearing in the morning," he says. "I need to sleep."

"I don't want to go to bed angry," I say, a bit pleading.

His eyes are already closed, though. "Then don't," he says, and turns away. But then, he softens for a moment, the lines on his forehead disappearing. "I can talk tomorrow, okay? Just… I can't handle any more tonight. I have to get some rest."

"Fine," I say, then get out of bed and move to the couch.

…

In the morning, not unusually, Jackson is already gone. I trudge into the kitchen on autopilot in search of my coffee, but it isn't there. No mug, no banana, no note. I stare at the spot where those things usually sit and blink hard, as if I'm hallucinating their absence, but they don't appear.

Knocked off my game, I get ready in a fog. I skip my run and instead, take an extra-long shower.

When I get to the theater, I check my phone to see if I have any missed calls or texts from Jackson, and even though I don't, my attention gets sucked into the screen. I click on the Twitter icon and see I have thousands of notifications from fans, all sending me love when I can't get it from the person who means the most.

I'm so in my head that I almost don't hear my friend, Addison, call my name.

"April," she says. "April, you in there?"

I blink and pick up my head. "Oh," I say. "Hey, Addie. Sorry, I didn't hear you."

"You okay?" she asks, sitting next to me. "You don't seem like yourself."

"I'm fine," I lie, then decide it's not worth it. "Well. No, I'm not."

She rests her chin on a closed fist, watching rehearsal begin without us. They'll call when our scenes go up, but right now we're not needed.

"You wanna talk?"

I shrug, chewing on the inside of my lower lip. "It's Jackson," I say. "My boyfriend."

"Oh, relationship drama," she says. "My favorite. In the helping sense, of course." She looks at me, eyes deep with feeling. "What happened?"

"We had a fight," I say, sighing. "And I'm not used to fighting with him. We were together a long time ago, remember, I told you? And now, things are just… different."

"Of course they are," she says. "You guys are older now."

"I know," I say. "But I didn't expect them to be _so_ different. There's so much stuff I have to think about now, in regards to our relationship, that never crossed my mind before. Like, am I being selfish? Is he? Who's right? Who's wrong? Is someone wrong at all; are we both? Where do I compromise, and when do I stand my ground?" I cover my face with my hands. "Sometimes, nothing about him makes sense. And other times, I'm so in love with him I can't see straight."

I feel her hand on my back, but I don't uncover my face.

"Serious adult relationships are worlds apart from how they are when you're a kid," she says. "Honestly, you have to deal with a lot of boring, real-life stuff that doesn't seem necessary, but it is. The other day, my husband and I had a fight over what brand of dishwasher detergent to buy. Not just an argument, either. A full blowout. And after it was over, and we went to bed pissed at each other, I wondered what it was all about. And sometimes, you don't figure it out. You just have to apologize and let it blow over. But most of the time, the reason you're fighting is deeper. And ultimately, it's because you love them. And you want the best for them, for the both of you. The person closest to you, the one you love the most, will always see your ugliest side. No matter what."

"I really hate that," I say. "I can't stand it."

"No one can," she says. "It's just the way life goes, I guess."

I let her words simmer in my head, and soak them in. I've never been great at listening to advice, but with Addison it's different. She never preaches. I could take or leave what she tells me and she'd still be my friend either way.

"I don't have a lot of time for him right now, and I think that hurts his feelings," I say. "He doesn't say it in those words, because, well, I don't know. He doesn't talk like that. But I have no idea what I'm supposed to tell him. This is my job; it has to consume my life. I don't want him to feel like I'm forgetting him, but I also can't be at his every beck and call."

"Does he want you at his every beck and call?" Addison asks.

"Well, no," I say.

She nods pointedly, not having to say a word for me to catch her drift.

"He gets so worried about me," I say. "When I don't need him to. When I was younger, I was really unstable at times. I'd work myself too hard and have breakdowns, and he thinks that's going to happen now. It's annoying to have someone breathing down your neck, all paranoid."

"All he knows is what he experienced before with you," she says, wisely. "And he's a man. Men want to fix. They see a hole, they fill it. They find a leak, they patch it. He's always going to look for a way to fix you, and you'll have to keep telling him you don't need a repair."

"Forever?" I ask.

"Maybe not forever," she laughs. "But for a while, until it sinks in."

"I don't think he realizes I take our relationship as seriously as I do," I admit. "But I love him more than anything. I can't explain it, how much I love him. Even more than I used to. I don't know how to put that into words."

She smiles, then reaches to take my hand. "Then show him."

…

I go home that night feeling confident, and lighter than I have in a while. I got out of rehearsal early, which means I'll be home by dinnertime. I texted Jackson to be ready to go out because I have a surprise, but got no reply. I'm not sure what to make of that, but I hope my apology will brighten him up if he's not yet going for it.

I push open the door to find the lights off in the main entryway, but on in the dining room, which we haven't yet used. I set my stuff down with a clunk, take off my shoes, and hang my coat on the hook.

"Jackson?" I call out.

"In here, babe," he responds.

Babe. That's a good sign, at least. I'm still confused, but I hold onto it.

I pad into the dining room and gasp when I see what he's done. Instead of the normal room we'd furnished not too long ago, there's a small table set up in the middle adorned with a white tablecloth, a tall candle in the middle, set for two. Jackson stands by one chair, dressed in a suit, wearing a tentative smile.

"What is all this?" I ask.

"Before you start talking," he says. "I want to say I'm sorry. I did a lot of thinking about everything you said, and you're right. I don't want to smother you, and I'm not insecure about our relationship. You mean everything to me, and the last thing I want to do is make you unhappy. So, I'm sorry for acting childish and needy. I'm going to support you in whatever you do."

My mouth drops open, and my eyes burn with tears. This is the last thing I expected.

"Baby," I say, then hug him tight. "You don't… thank you, but you don't have to apologize. You were right. I wasn't thinking about you, just myself. That's something I've always done, and I need to get better. I got so used to being an island when I was with Andrew, and now I have to learn that being with you isn't anything like that. I want to include you. You weren't being childish. I never want you to think I'm discounting your feelings."

He nods, smiling with half his mouth. "I love you," he says.

I hold his face in both hands and kiss him full on the mouth, passion underlying my movements. "I can't believe you did all this," I say, studying the table with his arms still around my waist.

"There's one more thing," he says, pulling away. "I've been thinking about this for a while. Before the move, actually. I just couldn't find the right time. I was gonna come up with some elaborate plan, but I didn't think that fit you. It wasn't us. And I know we've been going through some rough times, but that's what a partnership is all about. The good and the bad."

I look at him dubiously, unsure of where he's headed.

But it's hard for me not to realize when he drops to one knee and pulls out a ring box, opening the lid to showcase the most beautiful engagement ring I've ever seen.

"April Elisabeth, will you marry me?" he asks.

My hands fly to my mouth and cover it, tears streaming down my cheeks of their own accord. "Jackson…" I murmur, watching the ring sparkle in the flickering light. "You know… you know this won't just fix everything, right?"

"I know," he says, looking up at me with promise. "But I want to be with you forever. Through everything amazing, and the hard shit, too. And I want forever to start right now."


	16. Chapter 16

**JACKSON**

I've been subconsciously planning my proposal to April since the moment I saw her.

Not on stage, as I sat in the audience with Marisa. I mean the moment I saw her, the very first one, when she stepped into the deli wearing black and smelling like Lush products. The night she cried because she didn't have cash, when I made her a King Club and we listened to 'The Best You Had' by Nina Nesbitt.

All these years, I knew she was the one I wanted to marry. There was no questioning that, no doubting it. We both knew before she left; we talked about having babies and living together in a house with a big yard. We loved daydreaming about our future, and it dawned on me that the opportunity to make those dreams reality was sitting my lap.

When I got her back, there was no reason to wait. I bought a ring before we bought the house and hid it in places she'd never check - actually, places she couldn't reach. Those were easier to come across.

I can't imagine looking at someone else at 6am and thinking they're the most beautiful human to grace this earth. I don't want to dig anyone else's long red hair out of the bathtub drain, or pick up tampons for anyone else on the way home from work. I want her. That's it. For the rest of my life, I want April.

As I look up at her from where I kneel on the floor, ring box open, her sparkling eyes tell me everything I need to know. She covers her mouth with her hands and nods while holding back tears, saying, "Yes. Yes, Jackson. I'll marry you. Of course, I'll marry you."

I stand up and she jumps into my arms. I spin her around the dining room, holding as tight as I can, and cup her face when I set her down.

"Give me your hand," I say.

She extends her arm, dainty hand presented for me. I take the ring from its box and slip it on the ring finger of her left hand, smiling as it fits perfectly. The diamond glints in the light just as it did in the store where I saw it and knew she had to have it. It has a rose gold band with an oval cut gem in the middle, and it stands out on her hand yet doesn't overtake it.

"Jackson, it's gorgeous," she breathes, extending her fingers to get a good look. "I've never seen something like this. Oh, my god."

"Only the best for my fiancee," I say, then kiss her cheek - long and slow.

"How much did this cost?" she asks, still ogling.

"It doesn't matter," I say. "What matters is if you like it."

"Of course I like it," she says, baffled. "I love it." She picks her eyes up from the ring to hold mine. "I love you."

I capture her waist and pull her close so our torsos press against each other. "I love you more," I say. "And I can't wait to make you my wife."

Without eating the dinner I'd prepared, we blow the candle out and stumble upstairs. With my arms wrapped around her waist from behind, April lights the candles in our room without turning the lights on, which creates a flickering, ethereal look in the room.

I kiss the side of her neck, closing my eyes as I breathe in the sweet scent of her. I open my mouth and drag my tongue over her skin, sucking on the pulse point just to hear the whimper it'll elicit. And I'm not disappointed.

"I love you," she breathes, and I smile at the fact she said it just moments ago. But that's something I could hear her say every moment of every day, and never get sick of it. "God, Jackson, I love you."

I pull her shirt over her head and run my hands up her sides, stopping at her ribcage when she giggles. She's ticklish there, so I dig the pads of my fingers in and listen to her shriek.

"Stop," she laughs, smiling as she flips around in my arms.

"I can't," I say, lowering my face between her breasts as she inhales. She holds the sides of my head and keeps me there, breath hitching as I suck the swell of her breast between my teeth.

She smiles again and unclasps her bra quickly, throwing it over her shoulder once it's off. I stare like it's the first time I've seen her in this state, although that's far from the truth.

"You're so beautiful," I tell her, and walk her backwards so her thighs hit the bed and she has no choice but to collapse on her back. "Let me make you feel good."

She giggles as I kiss my way up her body, stopping at the ticklish spots, and tugs on my ears as I take my time with her nipples. With one in my mouth, I pinch the other between my thumb and first finger, grinning at the moan I earn from her.

"God," she whines, and I pull back to see it's hardened to a peak, pebbled skin surrounding. She opens her eyes as I'm looking at her and furrows her eyebrows. "Don't stop," she says.

I chuckle and resume what I was doing, but instead of palming her breast, I use that hand to sneak down her torso to the front of her jeans. I slip it inside after expertly unbuttoning and unzipping them, and tease her through her underwear.

Immediately, she clenches my hand between her thighs and rolls onto her side, successfully trapping it. I smile, lean up to kiss her neck, her sternum, her armpit as her arm is thrown over her head.

"Got you," she says. "And I'm not letting go."

"I don't want you to," I say, and roll onto my side as well so we're facing each other.

I bury my face between her breasts, enjoying the weight of them against my cheeks, and bite on the slopes. She arches her back, keening them closer, wordlessly telling me to keep going. Tonight, she's feeling a little pushy, and I'm not complaining.

With the hand that's stuck between her thighs, I try and move my fingers to no avail. I can feel how wet she is, though, and I want to be inside her more than anything else. I want to solidify our bond, be as close to her as humanly possible. Oral will come later, after.

I shove her hips with my free hand so she's on her back again, and she stares at me from where she lies, breathless. I remove my hand from her pants and use both to strip her, smiling as she helps me by lifting her ass and legs respectively.

"Thank you, baby," I whisper, then shed my own clothes. "Are you ready?"

She spreads her knees, completely open and exposed, and her eyes flit down to her core. "Check," she says.

My dick twitches at the flash of her eyes, and I don't consider disobeying. I press my hands against her inner thighs, pushing outwards, and kiss her lips slowly, delving my tongue inside to feel how wet and aroused she is.

"Good news," I say, lifting and crawling up her body to kiss her mouth. She licks her lips after I pull away, more than likely tasting herself. "You are."

"No condom," she says, fingers light as feathers over my chest and shoulders.

"No?" I ask. "Oh, right. The pill."

"That," she says. "And we're going to be married."

I smile, warmth flooding my insides as she says that, because it's true. If she got pregnant now, it wouldn't be an occurrence that would flip our lives upside-down. It would be expected and accepted, something joyous instead of a stressor.

"We're going to be married," I repeat, and slip inside her body, her wet heat that welcomes me each time better than before.

I go slow, urging my hips forward while hers rise to meet them. She arches her neck, opening her mouth in a silent moan, as I kiss her chin and under it. She widens her thighs, grabbing at my ass to pull me down closer, deeper, and I comply. I'm buried to the hilt inside her, and I never want to be anywhere else.

When she speaks, it almost sounds like she's sobbing. "I love you," she says, for the hundredth time tonight. "I love you so much, oh my god… you feel… so good, baby."

I pitch forward, causing her back to scoot up the mattress a bit. I continue to sink deeper, pulling out only slightly before going in again, and watch her go through the stages of ecstasy as I get us closer to what we both want.

When her eyes pinch closed, I reach for her knee and bend it at an angle, then pump as deep as I can.

"Oh, _god_ ," she moans, nails digging into the sides of my neck.

"You alright?" I ask. I can't quite decipher if that cry was from pain or pleasure.

"So close," she whimpers, eyes still shut. When she exhales, it's shaky and shallow. "So close, oh fuck, so close. Please, Jackson… please, just fuck me."

Charged by her words, I thrust faster and harder. I pin her wrists above her head and she opens her eyes, smiling breathily as she locks with mine.

"Yes, yes… just like that," she whines, writhing under me. "Oh god, just like that…"

"Is that good, baby?" I ask, gritting my teeth as I try to keep my orgasm at bay until hers comes. "God, you're so fuckin' tight. The way you feel… I just wanna rip you open and-"

Cutting me off, she screams right next to my ear and rakes her nails roughly down my back, surely leaving scratches as the skin begins to sting immediately. I relish the pain though, just as much as I relish the feeling of her walls clamping around me, desperate to keep me inside her as I come, hot and powerful, inside her body.

"Jesus Christ," I groan, letting my body take over instead of my brain as I ride out the last of my orgasm.

"Did I scratch you?" she pants, a fine layer of sweat coating her face and chest.

I nod.

"I'm sorry," she says, pulling me down for a passionate kiss. "I didn't mean to. You just…"

"I liked it," I say, and dip my head to suck on her earlobe, then bite it playfully.

She laughs and pushes weakly on my chest, giving me one last kiss before rolling over and standing up, pulling her underwear on as I stare.

"I'm hungry," she says. "Want me to grab you something from the kitchen?"

"Whatever you're having," I say, lying back unabashedly naked with my hands behind my head. I feel like I've just won a marathon, still riding the high from sex with April.

When she comes back, she's holding a sandwich on a plate for me, and a bowl of yogurt with what looks like dried cranberries for her. I take one look at the sandwich and know, before she speaks, what it is.

"King Club," she announces, setting it down.

"You remembered," I marvel, picking it up and taking a bite. "And you're damn good, too."

"Of course I remembered," she says, taking a spoonful of yogurt and slipping it into her mouth. A bit stays on her lower lip, so I reach out and swipe it with my thumb, offering it to her after. She licks the tip, then points her spoon at me. "We need to start thinking dates."

I laugh, shaking my head while I take another bite. "Baby, I just proposed to you tonight."

"I know," she says, shrugging. "But with wedding stuff, nothing is too soon."

"Sure, alright," I say. "Whatever you say."

"So, when do you want to marry me?" she asks, a twinkle in her eye.

I chuckle. "As soon as possible," I say. "Today. Right now."

"Jackson," she says, giving me a look. "Be serious. I was thinking maybe fall? I love the colors. I always thought they'd go well with my hair."

Right now, it's March. Fall seems like an eternity away.

"Not sooner?" I ask.

"Believe me," she says. "I want to get married just as bad as you do. But we're gonna need time once the preparation starts."

As I lie there listening to her go on about wedding details, a bowl of yogurt in hand, hair a mess, naked save for her underwear, I've never been more in love.

…

A month later, I'm under April on the couch as she straddles me. She's wearing running shorts and a sports bra, having just come back from a run with energy left over.

"The run was that good, huh?" I say, my hands mapping her back as she grinds subtly.

"Uh-huh," she breathes, threading her fingers in my hair. "Really good."

"You should go on good runs more often," I say, and we both laugh as if we haven't had sex multiple times a day since I proposed. Something is different about the both of us, the mood in the house has changed. It's lighter, more hopeful, more us.

"You know what, baby?" she says, lips ghosting over mine.

"What?"

"You're so sexy…" she says, and pulls my shirt off over my head, taking fistfuls of it over my shoulder blades.

"So are you," I say, smirking.

She dips to kiss my neck, massaging the opposite shoulder with one hand as she goes. Interrupting the moment, my phone rings from the coffee table and makes her jump.

"It can go to voicemail," I say, recognizing my non-work-related ringtone.

"Good," she says, and licks the shell of my ear all the way to the tip, which she sucks between her teeth and nibbles on gently.

She reaches between my legs and cups my bulge tight in her fingers, which makes me groan and throw my head back. She strokes me over the pants, which makes my erection grow even further, and she makes heavy eye contact while she works.

"You like that, baby?"

"Fuck…" I sigh, then the phone rings again.

"Who is it?" she asks, as her hand stops.

"Doesn't matter," he says, reaching to silence the ringer without looking. "Keep going."

She giggles and smirks, then puts her hand back. "You're so hard…" she purrs. "Did I get it up for you? Was that me?"

I look at her, bottom lip captured in her teeth, and feel like I could come in my pants right here. She doesn't even know how sexy she is.

"Of course it was you," I say, then the phone starts ringing _again_.

She sighs, pulling back to look at it exasperatedly, then that looks shifts to me.

"Goddammit," I growl, then glance at the screen to see 'Mark Sloan' across the top of it. "Jesus Christ," I mutter.

"Who is it?" April asks, still flushed, still on top of me.

"Fuckin' Mark," I say, then slide the button across. "Hey. What's up, man? Can I call you back?"

"Fuck no!" he laughs. "I called you three times. Where were you, dude? What's so important that you couldn't answer a call from your best friend?"

April looks at me and rests her weight back on her thighs, hands on my shoulders.

"I was just uh, a little preoccupied," I say, glancing at her.

"A little?" she mouths, then giggles softly.

"Anyway, doesn't matter," Mark says. "Are you free this week? I wanna know if it's a good time to visit. I was thinking about making it there tonight. So, you better clear your schedule. Old Marky-Mark's back in town!"

I press my lips together as April kisses my neck again, and try desperately to focus on the conversation at hand. But that proves to be almost impossible with her soft, sweaty body on top of mine, grinding against my lap.

"Uh… tonight," I say, mind clouded.

"Yes, tonight! So, that works? I'm on my way right now."

"Wait, hold up," I say, then look at April. "Babe, are we busy tonight?"

"Who you callin' 'babe?'" Mark asks. "Oh, yeah! I forgot! You're gonna get hitched! Saw that on Twitter thanks to your ultra-famous wifey-to-be."

I think back to the morning after, when April posted a photo of her hand with the ring on her finger, alongside a selfie of the two of us smiling all cheesy, arms wrapped around each other with the caption: ' _I said yes!_ '

The comments, replies, and retweets rolled in after that.

 _Omg, what a gorgeous ring!_

 _Congrats to the both of u!_

 _We love you april! You deserve the best and your man aint bad looking either ;)_

 _U better treat our girl right mr jackson avery whoever u are…_

"Oh, yeah, you saw that," I say. "Yeah, me and April got engaged about a month ago."

"Tonight's fine," April says, shrugging. "I'm not doing anything."

We've had much more free time since _August Osage County_ ended, and April has been home a lot more. She's due to teach a master class in a few weeks, but has taken some time off until then.

"Sure, man," I say. "Come over."

"We'll make dinner," April says, into the phone.

"Awesome," Mark says. "Be there in a couple hours."

We're still in the middle of making dinner when the doorbell rings. April stands behind the counter, chopping red peppers and wearing an apron I've tried to rip off a handful of times.

"I'll get it," I say, walking around the island and smacking her ass on the way.

"Hey!" she exclaims, but shakes her head and laughs as I walk away.

I open the door and Mark is standing there, arms out wide with a warm smile on his face. "Avery!" he cheers. "Bring it in!"

I mirror the smile and give him a big hug, and we clap each other on the back before pulling away.

"Nice ass place!" he says, craning his neck to look through the door.

"Thanks," I say. "We just moved in a couple months ago. Come in, man. Come on in."

I furrow my eyebrows as I see the suitcase that follows, studying it as I tip my head to one side. "Brought the small one," he says, noticing my expression.

"Uh…" I say, then clear my throat. "Yeah. You can leave it right there. April's in the kitchen, come say hi."

He follows me inside, commenting on picture frames and decorations as we walk through the hall before the kitchen. When we get there, April is drying her hands on the apron, smiling.

"Mark!" she greets, warmly. She extends her arms and gives him a big hug, rocking her weight from foot-to-foot. "It's been so long."

"Damn, you grew up," he says, then tugs on one of her loose curls. "Carrot top."

"Shut up," she says, and nudges him with her shoulder. "It'll be a little bit until dinner, but I hope you're hungry."

"Oh, I definitely am," he says, rubbing his stomach.

"Um…" I cut in, rubbing the back of my neck. "I… uh, baby… Mark brought a suitcase."

She raises her eyebrows, expression morphing into her fake-pleasant, I'm-going-along-with-this face.

"Yeah," I say.

"You got enough room here for four of me to stay," Mark says. "Damn! You guys are doing well for yourselves, aren't you?"

April clears her throat. "We do fine," she says. "Thank you for noticing. Um… Mark, how long did you plan on being here?"

"I told this one on the phone," he says, patting my shoulder roughly. "Week or so. He said you were free all this week. I'm still good for that, right? I'm kinda between places right now. Honestly, it's either here or under the Cortland Street bridge. And that's pretty watery."

April's face clears, but I know she still feels blindsided because I do, too. "Of course!" she says. "Of course. You're practically family. Stay for however long you need to."

"A week," I say, then smile cordially. "A week should be good."

"A week it is!" he says, then walks towards the fridge. "Got any beer?"

…

"Baby…" April's voice reverberates around the walls of the shower as we're both inside it. She's sitting on the ledge in the corner, elbows on her knees and chin in her palms, while I suds up under the stream of water.

"I know," I say, swiping my hair back so droplets spray off.

"A week," she says, widening her eyes and jutting her chin out. "That's a long time. I'm in the middle of planning the wedding. And what? He's just gonna _be_ here? It doesn't sound like he's working."

"No, I don't think he is," I say. "Hand me the shampoo?"

She hands me the RedKen bottle and replaces one palm under her chin. "Can you take some time off?" she asks.

"What," I say. "You don't wanna spend your days with Mark, just the two of you, quality time?"

As I'm turned around, she slaps my ass playfully. "Shut up," she says. "I like him enough. But not that much."

"Yeah, sure," I say. "I'm sorry, by the way. He sprung this on me, too."

"It's fine," she says. "We'll live. I'm just not sure how we're going to stay abstinent this whole week."

I frown, turning back around with soap in my hair. "What are you talking about?"

She looks at me like it should be obvious. "I'm not having sex with you while Mark's in this house."

"Why?"

She throws her hands up. "Because we're not exactly quiet!" she hisses.

"Speak for yourself," I say. "Screamer."

"Okay, you really need to shut up," she says, but I hear the laugh in her voice.

"He's a grown-up. He knows what sex is. It's not like we're gonna corrupt him."

"Maybe not. But still, he'll make fun of us mercilessly. And I don't want to be made fun of in my own house. It's bad enough I'm unwillingly keeping a guest for a whole week."

I chuckle, rinsing the shampoo out. "I'm gonna go along with your little no-sex idea, knowing full well you won't be able to follow through," I say. "But I support you."

"Oh, ye of little faith," she says, standing and walking over to me.

She winds her arms around my waist and sneaks one hand lower to graze my penis, which starts growing the instant she touches it. "See? What's this about?" I ask, raising my eyebrows.

"Slip of the hand," she says, shrugging. "Sorry, babe… it's big and gets in my way."

"So, now you wanna be all coy," I say. "Okay, okay. I see you."

"Meet you in bed," she says, tossing the words over her shoulder as she opens the glass door and steps out.

"You didn't even wash anything!" I call after her.

"I wasn't the dirty one," she says.

I scoff. "I beg to differ," I say.

"Don't keep me waiting," she sings, and I hurry my routine so I can get to bed, where I'm sure she'll go directly against her promise.

 **APRIL**

The next morning, Jackson works from home in the office. I get ready as usual, but in his absence take advantage of longer shower time and freedom to sing out loud in front of the mirror without him joining in, belting in a voice that can never find the key.

I never complain, though. I think it's cute when he sings with me.

I let my hair air-dry and slip on a silk robe after I've gone through my moisturizing routine, tired of fighting the urge to be with him. Intimately. Of course, I can't make good on my own oath, and he knew that the minute I said it.

I tighten the tie on the robe as I walk downstairs to the basement, peering my head into the guest room to make sure Mark is still asleep. Luckily, I find him sprawled across the bed with his mouth wide open, snoring.

I hurry back upstairs and knock softly on the office door, hearing Jackson's muffled voice from within a few seconds later.

"Hey, babe," he says, looking up. His glasses are halfway down the bridge of his nose, and he nudges them up as we make eye contact. "What are you up to?"

I shrug, seemingly innocent. "Missed you," I say, batting my eyelashes.

"Uh-huh," he says, and sets his pen down. "You sure that's all?"

"Of course," I say, giggling as I come closer. "What else would it be?"

"Oh, I don't know," he says, leaning back in the chair as he watches my every move. "I'm pretty sure you can't resist me, that's what it is."

"That's totally not it," I say, but untie the robe as I speak. Underneath, I'm wearing nothing at all.

"Jesus, baby," he says, pupils dilating at the sight of me. "Get over here."

I smirk, then sit on the edge of his desk to face him. But he shakes his head, unsatisfied, and pulls me onto his lap so I'm straddling his hips with my knees.

"Now who can't resist who?" I ask, shedding the robe completely, hearing it crumple to the floor a split second later.

He drinks in my naked body, leaning forward to open his mouth between my breasts. I lean into him, cupping his face in my hands, and tip my head to the side. I let my eyes close, enjoying the sensation of his warm tongue on my skin as he explores, and let out a long sigh.

"You really know how to use your tongue," I murmur, gasping slightly when he licks a wide path over my right nipple. "Mmm."

"Remember my nickname?" he says, lifting to nudge my chin with his nose. I get the hint and open my eyes directly into his, which are sparkling with arousal.

"Of course I do," I say. "You still got it?"

"I'm good with my tongue," he says, pressing a deft kiss in the middle of my sternum. "But I'm good with my fingers, too."

Punctuating his sentence, he slips two inside me and I clench around them instantly. He presses out on my walls, scissoring them and going deep at the angle we're at.

"Oh, fuck," I squelch, hands dropping to his shoulders to squeeze tight. I look down and see those two fingers have completely disappeared inside me, and can barely stay upright. I let my forehead drop against his and work my hips forward, guiding myself lower onto his hand while pleasure courses through my body.

"There you go," he encourages, using his thumb to rub against my clit gently. Dull sparks pulse between my legs, which only makes my hips move more insistently. "See, I didn't lose it."

"No, you didn't," I breathe, chewing on my lower lip.

"Say it," he says, pumping faster and pressing harder with his thumb. "Tell me what I am."

"Pussy champ," I moan, fingernails digging into the slope between his shoulders and neck. "You touch me better than I touch myself. You're so… damn… good to me."

"That's what I like to hear," he says, and I can hear the satisfaction in his voice. "Want me to make you come, baby?"

"Please," I whisper, eyes still closed.

"Fast?" he pushes. "Or slow?"

I scoop my hips at a more contained rate, trying to measure my movements in accordance with his. I meet his eyes and see he hasn't broken away; he's been staring my face the whole time. With anyone else, I'd feel self-conscious. With him, I feel sexy.

"Fast," I hiss.

His eyes grow hooded and dark as he pumps harder, deeper, faster, reaching around with the other hand to squeeze my ass as hard as he can.

"Oh, fuck," I moan, loudly. "Yes, Jackson, yes! Just like that. Please, god, yes… keep going… right there!"

I wrap my arms tight around his neck while it happens, pressing his face against my bare chest. As it heaves with exertion, he presses errant kisses to the swells of my breasts, dragging his soaked fingers over the curves of my outer lips.

I pull away from his face, feeling drunk while I smile at him. "That was-"

"Hey, guys. Just wondering where- oh, fuckin' shit!"

I flip around faster than the speed of light to see Mark standing in the office doorway, phone in hand.

"I was just looking for an extra charger!" he shouts.

"Mark!" I scream, at the top of my lungs. I scramble to cover my chest with my forearms, then realize he still has a full view of my ass. "Get out!"

I dismount Jackson and hurriedly pick up my robe from the floor, shoving my arms back in so I can tie it up.

"Jesus, calm down," he says. "Not like I didn't know you guys were gonna do it while I'm here. By the way… great ass, April."

"Mark!" I shrill.

"Fuck off, Mark," Jackson grumbles, standing. "Don't look at her ass."

"I mean, it was kinda hard not to," he says, shrugging. "I walked in and there it was, grinding on your dick."

"Okay, alright already," Jackson says, shooing him. "Get the fuck out. Extra charger's in the drawer next the fridge."

"All I asked," Mark says innocently, palms up.

Once he leaves, I pull my robe even tighter and look at Jackson with a flustered expression. At first, he matches it, but then winds an arm around my waist to pull me close. And once I'm there, he takes the fingers that were just inside me and slides them into his mouth, sucking on them while his eyes close.

"You're filthy," I whisper, smacking his chest.

"You love it," he whispers back, before kissing me sound on the cheek.

…

Later that night, I'm in my workspace with my laptop open in front of me, researching wedding venues in Chicago. I'm already in my comfortable clothes for the night, worn-ribbed tank top and a pair of joggers, my hair tied in a messy bun as I write notes on everything I find.

"Hey, beautiful," Jackson says, coming in the room with a smile on his face. He's wearing dark jeans and a jacket like he's about to go somewhere. "Wanna get ready to go out? Mark wants to take us for drinks."

I look down at my getup - no bra included. "I think I'll stay in tonight," I say.

"You sure?" he asks, eyebrows crinkling. "We'll miss you."

"I know," I say, then smirk. "But go ahead. It's fine. I'm looking up wedding stuff anyway."

"Completely sure?" he says again.

"Yes, Jackson," I say, then nudge his thigh with my foot. "Go. Have fun."

"Alright," he says, over his shoulder as he walks out of the room. "I love you."

"Love you," I call, eyes back on the screen as I listen to the front door open and close.

I scratch down my thoughts. _Inside or outside? Modern or classic?_ To remind myself to talk with Jackson about the options later. I know what I want, of course, but I also know that this should be a partnered decision.

By the end of my search, I have a few venues that stick out. While glancing back and forth between the computer and the paper, I list them under the other slew of notes above.

 _Esplanade Lake Ballroom_

 _Renaissance Chicago Downtown Hotel_

 _The Palmer House_

I think about money next, though it's not romantic by any means. Jackson and I are well off; there's no way I'll need to ask my parents to contribute. I know they'll offer, but I won't let them. We can handle this on our own, without being a burden to anyone else.

I think about who I'll ask to be in my wedding party. It dawns on me that Jackson might ask Mark to be his best man, and I smirk at the thought. Though he's annoying, he's known us as a couple for a long time. I decide to reach out to Lexie, though we haven't seen each other in a while, and Addison definitely. My sisters will be bridesmaids by default.

I fill pages upon pages with details that seem small but won't be in the long run. Cake flavors, cake styles, the best bakers in the city. I write down a crop of question marks next to how many guests we plan on inviting, because I have no idea without talking to Jackson first.

No matter how we swing it, this wedding will cost more than twenty thousand dollars. I have money, but looking at that number reverts me back to my humble beginnings and almost makes me fall off the couch.

I think about wedding dresses last, immediately both excited and overcome with how many styles that exist. I don't want to wait to find my gown - even though we haven't picked a set date yet, I know once I have my dress I'll feel more grounded in everything else.

My eyes begin to close once I start research on dresses, though, and I end up nodding off on the couch with the computer open in front of me, pen in hand.

I wake up much later, disoriented and off-kilter. At first, I'm not even sure where I am. But then, I sit up a bit and rub my eyes, wipe the drool off my cheek, and shut the computer. I need to go to bed.

I trip over two big pairs of men's shoes on the way to the stairs, though. I look down, seeing that Jackson and Mark carelessly disrobed and left their things in the entryway. I mutter an expletive under my breath, kick them to the side, and grip the banister tight as I ascend the stairs.

I rub my eyes and squint when I turn the bathroom light on, and brush my teeth quickly. I take my hair all the way out of the bun it'd been falling from anyway, and change into a pair of underwear and t-shirt of Jackson's so I can crawl into bed.

But as I come out of the bathroom, I see that there's no room for me in the bed. Jackson is on my side, and Mark is sprawled out on his stomach where Jackson usually lies.

"You've got to be kidding me," I grumble, walking over to my fiance and shaking his shoulders.

"Mmm…" he groans, and presses his face into the pillow. I smell the alcohol on both of them, so I doubt he's anywhere near conscious.

"Jackson," I hiss. "Get Mark out of our bed."

"Mmph," he grunts, shoulders moving slightly.

"Jackson," I say, this time louder as I shove his side. "I want to go to sleep."

"Come in, baby…" he slurs, lifting his arm a few inches before it flops back down. "Cuddle with me."

"There's no room!" I whisper urgently. "Get Mark out!"

"Mm-hmm," he says. "Okay. I will."

I stare for a moment and watch him fall back to sleep. In a huff, I give up my mission and roll my eyes, grabbing extra blankets and pillows to set up on the couch downstairs.

In the morning, I'm awoken by the feeling of a body on the couch, getting comfortable to spoon me from behind. Even in my half-state of awareness, I know it's Jackson. Of course it is.

I keep my eyes closed as he kisses my shoulders, the side of my neck and the back of it. He slides a hand down the dip of my waist to rest over my stomach, pulling me as close as possible.

"I know you're awake," he murmurs, into my hair.

"I'm not," I reply, eyes still shut.

"Mmm…" he chuckles, slipping his hand up to my chest before I elbow him away. "Ow."

"I'm asleep," I say. "I'm tired."

"Come on, early bird," he says.

"I didn't sleep good here," I say, rolling over to face him without opening my eyes.

His lips are on my face the moment I change positions. In the middle of my forehead, the space between my eyebrows, the side of my nose, my lips, my chin.

"I'm sorry, baby," he says, tracing my spine. "I didn't mean to get that drunk. And I definitely didn't mean for the dumbass to pass out in our bed."

"At least he was on your side," I grumble.

He laughs. "There's the silver lining."

I finally open my eyes to find him staring right into them. I smile softly and lift my hand to run it down the kept beard across his jaw. "I don't like sleeping without you," I pout. "I found that out the hard way."

"I'll make sure it never happens again," he says, returning my smile and reaching to grab my ass. "You can-"

"Alright, hand check," Mark says, sauntering into the room with a bowl of cereal. He sits down on an armchair across from the couch we're laying on and smiles in our direction, milk dripping down his chin.

"You're a child," I say, rolling my eyes as I sit up.

"A child who slept in your bed last night," he says. "Cozy."

"Shut up," I say.

Jackson sits up, too, leaning back against the couch so he can pull me to his side. "Since you two are getting along so great," he says. "Now seems like a good time to tell you I have to go into the office for a bit today."

Being the polite hostess I am, I hold back my groan. Instead, I nod while wearing a terse expression and pat his knee. "Sounds good. I was planning on going shopping for dresses, anyway."

"You already have a billion dresses," Mark says, eyebrows up. "Did a little investigating. Your closet is huge as fuck, by the way."

I narrow my eyes. "Please stay out of my closet," I say. "And I don't mean any old dress. I'm going wedding dress shopping."

"Alone?" he asks.

I sputter for a moment, sitting up straighter as I try to keep my composure. "I mean, yeah," I say. "My family doesn't live in town. They're in Ohio. And I'd ask my friend, Addison, but-"

"Addison Montgomery?" he says.

My lips part with surprise. "Uh, yeah…" I say. "How do you know her?"

His eyes widen for a moment. "We got history," he mumbles. "Anyway, April, you can't go alone. Who's gonna tell you if you look horrible? Or hot?"

"I don't know, I have two working eyes," I say, shrugging.

"No way," he says. "You need an outsider's perspective. And I've known Jackson for pretty much his whole life. I know what he likes."

I scoff. "I'm not buying the dress for him."

"He's gonna be the one taking it off, though, isn't he?" Mark chides.

I blush red, and he laughs.

"Yeah, that's what I thought. Come on, dude. Give me a chance. I promise, I'm more helpful than you think."

I sigh and shake my head a bit, wondering if I really have anything to lose. Finally, I look up and say, "Sure. Why not?"

…

First, we stop at Mignonette Bridal. The people inside are lovely, of course assuming Mark is my groom at first before we clear things up for them. We spend a while in there, flipping through racks without finding anything that even stands out enough to try on.

Next, we go to Luxe Bridal Rack, which proves the same outcome. After we finish there, we stop for lunch while Mark tells me all about his latest excursions and skillfully avoids my questions about Addison.

Next comes BHLDN, where I have an appointment set up. The woman who helps us is very attentive, but soft-spoken, and her voice gets overpowered by Mark's more often than not.

I come out in a long-sleeved dress with lace at the shoulders, and Mark shakes his head.

"That's lovely-" the girl begins, but gets cut off.

"You need to show a little more skin, Ape," he says. "Come on."

I frown. "That nickname is not a thing," I say.

"Think about your man! What's gonna make him cry when you walk down that aisle? Not a housecoat, that's what!"

"I'm sorry about him," I mutter to the poor woman as we walk back into the changing area. She shrugs, probably used to it by now, and flips through the handful of dresses we have left.

Surprisingly, I've found wedding dress shopping decently fun. I wasn't expecting to have a good time, but once I let my guard down, Mark has shown me a good day. And this has been my favorite shop so far. I have a good feeling about this place.

Mark nixes the next two dresses I come out in. Saying the first one is too old-fashioned and the second too modern. I have no idea what he means, but he's dead-set on his opinion. I haven't fallen in love with any of them yet, either.

The last one I try on is called the Cassia dress. It's a V-neck with see-through lace straps that are trimmed in sparkle with flower designs on the bodice. Along the back, in a modest line, are a strand of pearl buttons that lead down to a fluffy tulle skirt. When I walk out to the trio of mirrors, I feel like a princess.

I spin and show him, and for the first time all day, he says nothing. He just stares. I can't read the look on his face, so I stare back with a confused look.

"Uh, hello?" I say. "What's wrong?"

He snaps out of it, shaking his head slightly. "Nothing," he says. "Nothing's wrong. This is it. This is the one, you have to get it. He's gonna love it. You look… you look incredible."

I can't help but blush as I turn around to look in the mirror. I've never been one to gush over my own appearance, but I can't disagree with him. I've never seen myself look quite like this.

I turn to the quiet woman with an uncontrollable grin on my face. "This one," I say. "I'll take this one."

…

When we get home later that night, I smell Jackson cooking in the kitchen. Leaving Mark in the dust, I kick off my shoes and hurry to meet him. When I do, I launch into his arms and wrap mine around his neck, lifting my feet off the ground.

"Damn!" he says, laughing with surprise. "Good day?"

"Great day," I say, face pressed against his neck. "I found the dress."

Mark clears his throat pointedly, finally making it to the kitchen.

"We," I correct, eyeing him. " _We_ found a dress."

…

A few days later, Jackson and I are in bed. It's late at night, long past midnight when we're usually both asleep, but I insisted on waiting until Mark was passed out to go upstairs. I had a specific destination in mind.

My lips are red and puffy, as Jackson has already kissed the hell out of me. And now, I'm breathless while he's between my spread legs, sucking and licking me like I'm the last meal he'll ever have.

"Fuck, baby," he says. "I love how your breath pauses when I put my mouth on your pussy… how you grab those sheets so fuckin' tight… Jesus."

I prop myself up on my elbows, watching his tongue flatten out and draw a path between my lips. My eyelids flutter as he sucks on my clit and my arms go slack, forcing me to the mattress again.

He slides his grip under me, palming my ass roughly and forcing me to his lips. My hips work of their own accord, grinding against his face as I get closer and closer.

"I love your hands on my ass," I pant. "Your big, strong hands all over me…oh, god."

"Tell me where you want 'em," he says, eyes flashing.

"Inside me," I breathe, and he takes one hand from my ass to slip two fingers below where his tongue is working. "Oh, god, baby… I want you to fuck me. Please, I want you to fuck me so hard I can't walk."

He pulls his fingers out and drags them across my lips before sliding them into my mouth, where I suck on them slowly, wrapping my tongue around the tips.

"I'm gonna fuck you until I feel that sweet little pussy clenching around me," he says, thrusting once to push inside.

"I want you to come - so hard," I say, struggling to catch my breath while he pounds his hips against mine. "That I feel - oh, god. Mmmm, oh my _god_."

I lose my train of thought because the only thing I can concentrate on his how my body has become his in the most delicious way. I'm completely lost in the way he feels and the way he makes me feel, when a strange voice sounds through the room.

"Hey, guys. Oh, shit. Fuck. Shit, I-"

"Mark, Jesus Christ!" Jackson bellows, and I push him off me so I can wrap myself in the sheet and hide my blushing body from view. "Goddammit, you fucking idiot! Can you not see we're-"

"I'll leave you to it!" he insists. "I swear! I just wanted to know if it was alright that Stacie used the back door instead of the front so we don't set off the alarm system!"

I squint in his direction. Jackson nudges his glasses up the bridge of his nose, trying to comprehend what Mark is asking.

"Who?" I snap, tucking a piece of messed-up hair behind my ear.

"Stacie," he says. "This girl I met at the bar. I told her she could come over and hang. You two aren't the only ones around here who can get it, you know."

I close my eyes, trying to center myself before I get much too angry for what this situation deserves. "Mark," I say, scarily calm. "You cannot and will not have a stranger over to my house just so you can sleep with her."

"Aw, come on. Ape, I thought we were cool."

"Don't call me that!" I yell, and he jumps with wide eyes, having not expected my reaction. "That is not my nickname. And we were cool, until you tried to turn my house into a brothel."

"Come on," he says. "That's a little harsh, don't you think? I mean, you guys are up here doin' it every chance you get."

"Yeah, because it's _our_ house," Jackson cuts in.

"You have one dirty fuckin' mouth, dude," Mark says, pointing at him with good humor.

Jackson fights a smile. I can tell he wants to be proud of that compliment, but knows I'm too worked up to support it.

"Mark, I'm sorry, but I can't have you here anymore," I say, sighing. "I've done as much as I can take. I know you're Jackson's best friend, and I like you as a person. I really do. But I can't take another minute of you in my house."

At first his face is placid, confused. But then, he breaks into a wide grin. "Damn," he says, shaking his head. "Okay, alright. I can see where I'm not wanted." He chuckles quietly. "Damn, you guys are so married already."

I glance at Jackson, who looks equally as proud of that statement as the one before.

"Who would've thought?" Mark continues, shifting to leave as we still sit there in bed, covered only by a sheet. "You know? That the weird deli girl I told you to hump and dump would become your wife someday."


	17. Chapter 17

**APRIL**

The months before our wedding pass frighteningly quickly. Before I know it, it's October 20th and I'm in a dolled-up dressing room of the Palmer House, getting fussed over by my mother, sisters, Lexie and Addison.

Mom hasn't stopped crying since the moment we walked into the hotel. I kissed Jackson goodbye and she took my wrist, stroking the skin with her thumb, muttering over and over again how her little girl was all grown up.

I don't bother to mention she has three other 'little girls' that are either already there or on their way, but I don't think she'd hear me anyway. Today is my day. And I might as well be her only daughter for the next twenty-four hours.

"Everything is so fancy here, Duckie," Alice says.

I look over to her, my littlest sister who is now in her 20s. But, to me, she'll always be the tiny baby who clung to me and copied my every move as we were growing up.

"How much did all this cost?" Kimmie asks, sitting in front of a vanity while a hired hairdresser pins up her red tresses.

"You don't need to worry about that," I say, brushing off the question.

"This is April's day, let her enjoy it," Mom cuts in. "She told us that we don't need to worry about expenses. So, how about we just live in the moment? We don't need to think about those sorts of things. And anyway, it's rude to bring up, Kimberly."

"Oooh, _Kimberly_ ," Alice jeers.

"Shut up, Allie," Kimmie retorts. She can always be counted on to never act her age.

But while I'm usually annoyed by her antics, I'm not today. Today, I promised myself not to let anything get under my skin. I'm on a different level, floating in my own sphere that includes Jackson only.

I relax and let the hair and makeup people go to work on me, bringing to life the very specific vision I outlined for them in weeks prior. With my wedding planner, I studied my dress and figured out what hairstyle would pair well with it, and what makeup palette to use. We've got everything down to a science.

Once it's time to put my dress on, my mom comes into a small, separate room with me and carefully unzips the garment bag.

"Oh, April," she says, teary all over again. "It's beautiful. So beautiful."

I look at her warmly. "Aw, mama," I say. "Don't cry."

"I know," she says, fanning herself and looking towards the ceiling. "I'll mess up this gorgeous makeup you paid for!" She laughs at herself. "Really, honey. I'm so proud of you, being able to do all this for yourself. Jackson, too. The both of you, doing it together. It's no small feat. You should be very proud. Because I know I am."

"Thank you, mama," I say, and hug her while still in my camisole. "That means so much to me."

"I can still remember when you two first met," she says, pulling away to cup my face in her palms. "And you told me you made a new friend who was a boy." She shakes her head, smiling. "And even after all these years, you found your way back to each other." She closes her eyes and kisses my forehead. "You deserve this, sweet baby."

"I love you," I whisper, on the verge of tears myself as I wrap my arms around her shoulders. "Thank you, mom."

She helps me into my dress, doing up all the buttons and zipping slowly so not to catch the fabric. Once everything is in place, she turns me around and makes small fixes, then steps back to take it all in.

"You are the most beautiful bride I've ever seen," she says, blinking hard.

"Don't tell Libby or Kim," I say, then giggle lightheartedly. "Come on, let's go show them."

Everyone fawns over me, telling me how beautiful I look and how breathtaking I am. And today, I don't fight their compliments. For once, I soak it in and believe the words they shower me with. I'm in a gorgeous dress, about to walk down the aisle to the man I love. There's no reason why today won't be everything I've imagined.

Butterflies swirl in my stomach as my mother situates a tiny tiara on my head, right at the base of my bun. She pushes a few curled strands out of my eyes and positions my veil, sighing happily once the finishing touches are on.

"Are you ready?" she asks.

I've been ready for more than ten years.

As my arm is linked with my father's, I stand at the end of the aisle and look towards my future. Though he's a bit of a distance away, I see Jackson clearly - for everything he is. The expression on his face is both shocked and expectant, and his eyes are glassy like I guessed they would be.

As I walk towards him, it seems we're the only two people in the world. The room is filled with important people, but our love takes the stage today. His eyes don't break from mine, not for a second; they follow me until I stand in front of him, close enough so we can clasp each other's hands.

"You're so beautiful," he says, lifting my veil.

I beam at him. There's no other way to describe it, and I can't help my tears. I blink to keep them from falling, and he squeezes my fingers.

"We are gathered here today to witness the union of April Elisabeth Kepner and Jackson Reid Avery…"

The words get lost as I stare into his eyes - those magnetic greens that caught me the very first day I saw him. He smiles, probably not hearing anything the woman is saying either. All I want to do is kiss him. All I want to do is be his wife.

"The couple has prepared their own vows," the justice of the peace says. "Jackson, go ahead."

"April," he says, clearing his throat. "I know this sounds cheesy. But I knew, the moment I saw you, that we'd be standing here today. Someday. I didn't know when, I didn't know quite how, but I knew I wanted to marry you."

His grip grows sweaty in mine, and I give him an encouraging smile.

"You're the light of my life," he continues. "I love seeing you on stage, performing, doing what you love. Living your dream. It brings me so much joy to watch you succeed. But at the same time, I love coming home to you in your sweats, eating ice cream out of the tub and watching _Dance Moms_ on the couch."

He gets a laugh from the audience on that one.

"You remind me who I am. You always have. You believe in me when I don't believe in myself, and I don't take that lightly. You've taught me that it's okay to be vulnerable, okay to be wrong. I want you to know that through all the ways you support me, I'm holding you up as well. There will never be a moment in our marriage where you have to worry if I'm on your side. Through thick and thin, pink lady, you are it for me. I can't wait to spend the rest of my life with you."

I sniffle as tears stick to my eyelashes - luckily, I'm wearing waterproof mascara. I knew I'd cry today, so I thought ahead.

"I love you," I mouth, and he smiles with shining eyes.

"April," the justice says.

I take a deep, rattling breath. I spent weeks preparing these vows, trying to make sure they were perfect. I wrote draft after draft, filled an entire notebook, and got frustrated with myself too many times to count. How was I supposed to put my love for Jackson into words, and just a paragraph, at that?

"Jackson," I say, then smile. "My Jackson. From the moment I laid eyes on you, you had my heart. And from the moment we became friends, you changed me. And after our first kiss, I knew you were my one. Forever."

He strokes my hands with both thumbs, watching me intently as I speak.

"You taught me complete trust. Before you, I never felt safe enough to hand myself over to another person. And while we were apart, I built that wall back up. But with you, I'm open. I have the freedom to be who I am, because I know through every mistake, you'll be there. And the same goes for you - when you falter, I'll catch you."

I swallow hard, getting choked up. I don't mean to cry, but it's hard not to. All the memories we've cultivated over the years float to the surface, and I know we've earned this. We've only just begun our story, but standing here at the altar feels like a happy ending of sorts.

"My dream, for my whole life, was to be on stage. To act, sing, perform - to have my name in lights. And I got it. But after all that came, after I achieved everything I set out to do… without you, I realized I wasn't satisfied. And when you came back into my life, and we recreated what always should've been, I knew."

I grip his hands tightly, solidly.

"You are my new dream."

…

For our first dance, Jackson and I sway to 'The Luckiest' by Ben Folds in the middle of the floor. Everyone watches, but the only eyes that matter are his.

"I love you," he whispers.

I rest my cheek against his chest, smiling as I close my eyes. "I love you more," I reply, then look up at him. "You're my husband."

"And you're my wife," he says, swiping his thumb over my cheekbone. "How did I get you?"

Mirroring the song, I say, "Must've gotten lucky."

As the songs pick up and more people filter onto the dance floor, we make our rounds and thank everyone for coming. I get used to the guest fawning over my dress and telling us what a beautiful couple we make - used to it, but not ungrateful. I soak up everyone's presence and know I'll never forget this night.

"Congrats on finally tying the knot!" Mark says, once we sit down at the head table. He claps Jackson hard on the back, and Jackson jolts forward from the impact.

"Thanks, buddy."

"April, seriously. I've never seen a more gorgeous bride," Addison says, and I look over my shoulder to see her standing behind me, a glass of champagne in hand.

"Aw, Addie," I say. "Thanks."

She sits down and a spark of memory lights inside my head, so I swivel around to get Mark's attention and ask him about their history. But almost like he was never there, he's gone.

I snort. "What's with you and Mark?" I ask.

"Sloan?" she asks.

I nod.

"Uh, he was my boyfriend in college," she says. "But he'd always cry after sex. It was the strangest thing. So, I broke it off."

"Jesus!" Jackson laughs, and I join in.

Across the room, Mark comes into view talking to Lexie. Judging by their body language alone, he's hitting on her.

"Maybe you should go save your friend," Addie murmurs. "I doubt he's grown out of it."

The night passes by slowly, which is just how I like it. I take in the small moments - like Jackson slipping his hand into mine and fiddling with the rings on my finger, watching the people we love interact in front of us. Or the looks on my family's faces when he removes my white wedding garter with his teeth and tosses it to the bachelors in the crowd. I don't know if my blush has ever been that hot before.

But before the party is anywhere close to dying down, we have a plane to catch to the Maldives.

"I'm gonna go change," I tell Jackson, squeezing his wrist.

"Wait," he says. "Aren't I supposed to take that dress off?"

I smile. "I have plenty of other white things you can take off later," I say.

"This is different…" he says, running a hand down my spine, bumping over the pearl buttons.

"Okay, fine," I say, giving in easily. "Come into the dressing room with me, then."

Once we're away from everyone else, the air is silent and still. I feel calm and at ease for the first time all night, and let out a long exhale because of it.

"It almost doesn't feel real," he says, walking in behind me. "Like, this can't be our wedding."

"I know," I say, then find my bag to get a change of clothes out of it. They're plane clothes - leggings, a thin green hoodie, and sneakers.

"Can I unzip you?" he asks, hands ghosting over my hips.

"Go ahead," I say, then duck my chin as he traces the intricate patterns of the fabric. He does the zipper first, slow as anything, before arriving at the buttons.

But before he touches them, he kisses the middle of my back between my shoulder blades. Soft and slow, he draws a line from one side to the other and makes goosebumps rise on my skin.

The buttons come undone one at a time, gently and carefully. Once the dress is open to either side, Jackson slips the straps down my arms and lets it fall to the floor where it stands up somewhat on its own, like a sentient creature.

I step out of it, but stay turned around. Underneath, I'm only wearing a strapless white bra and a white thong - one I hoped he'd see. I wore it with him specifically in mind.

"Oh, Jesus, baby," he says, sinking to his knees while holding tight to my waist. "Your ass has never looked better."

His thumbs dig into the small of my back, massaging the dimples, and I can't help but jump as his teeth dig into the swell of my behind. One arm flies behind me, anchoring on top of his head as he runs his tongue over the skin.

"Baby," I say, sounding surprised. "God."

"I've been dying to get my hands on you all night," he mutters, curling his fingers around the measly string circling my middle, threatening to pull it down. I almost wish he would - it's not like the it's comfortable by any means.

"I know," I say. "I feel the same. But right here, right now…" I sigh, equally as frustrated. "We can't. We have to get going, but…" I turn around. He looks up at me through his eyelashes, completely at my mercy. "Once we get to the hotel, I'm yours."

He stands up, grazing my ribcage along the way. "All mine, all week," he says, solidifying it like a promise.

I nod, smiling with my lower lip caught in my teeth.

We get changed, and I leave my dress for my mother to take care of like she said she would. Our bags are already packed and in the car set to pick us up; all we have to do is say goodbye before heading off on our honeymoon.

"Off to have some dirty, married sex?" Addison asks, giving me a tight squeeze.

"Addie!" I say, laughing.

"Remember, stay hydrated," she says, pointing a finger. "You'll thank me later. And just so you know, semen is _amazing_ for the skin. So, have a little fun and let him come all over your-"

"Okay, enough!" I say, batting her away. "I'm gonna go say goodbye to my _very Christian_ family now."

She cracks up, waving in my direction. "Have fun. Be safe."

When I hug my mom, I swear she doesn't plan on letting go. She holds my shoulders so tight that my body practically goes concave, and I struggle for breath.

"Mom, we'll be back in a week," I squelch, eyes squinted over her shoulder.

"I know," she says.

"And I never - see you - anyway!"

"I know," she says. "But… you're my little girl. You don't understand yet, but this is a huge moment for you. And for me, too, as your mother."

"Okay, mom."

"I just love you so, so much," she says, giving me a huge kiss on the cheek. "One day, maybe you'll know how much."

"Mom," I say, smiling good-naturedly.

"Okay, one more hug," she says. "For the road."

As we walk out the doors, all my sisters stand there and wave.

"Have lots of sex!" Libby calls, hands cupped over her mouth.

"Make some babies!" Alice shouts.

"Hopefully you'll be able to walk when you come back, Duckie!" Kimmie finishes, and earns herself a swat from Mom for it.

We get in the car, and exhaustion flows over me like a physical wave. I lean my head against Jackson's shoulder, and he wraps an arm around me while kissing the top of my still done-up hair.

"I'm so tired," I say, laughing weakly.

"Go to sleep, then," he says.

"But I wanna be with you."

I hear his smile without seeing it. "We have plenty of time," he assures me.

I'm comforted in the fact that he not only means on this trip, but in the grand scheme of things - for forever, we have a lot of time. I close my eyes knowing that, and don't wake up fully until we land in our honeymoon destination, where the sun is blindingly bright.

"We're here," he says, taking my hand as we walk to a car that's waiting for us.

The islands are beautiful. As we ride to our resort, I stare, wide-eyed, out the window, unable to believe this is a real place. It looks like a painting, or like a mirage in a hot desert. But when we get out of the car and walk into the hotel, it's obvious this is really happening.

"This place is unreal," I say, looking out the window and marveling at the crystal-blue ocean laid in front of us.

"I know," Jackson says. "It's paradise."

I look over my shoulder to find that he's stripped off his shirt and thrown it on the chair, now stretching his arms above his head with his eyes closed. I smile as he yawns widely, sighing after.

"I'm ready to make love to my wife," he says, strolling over.

"I think we should take a nap before we do anything," I say, laying a flat hand on his chest.

"What? What are you talking about? We're in freakin' paradise, babe, and you wanna nap?"

"I want you…" I say, trailing my fingers lower. "To have stamina. And I know you're tired. You have bags under your eyes. You know, you didn't have to stay awake while I slept on the way here."

"Yes, I did," he says, stripping down to his boxers before heading towards the bed. "I had no make sure no one put their hands on you."

"I'm perfectly capable," I say, getting more comfortable myself as I follow him.

"Not while you're asleep, you aren't," he says, and rests his head on the pillow. "Oh, god. This feels amazing."

"See, told you," I say, and cuddle up to him. He's right, I did sleep for the majority of the trip, but I'm still jet-lagged. He falls asleep first, but I'm not far behind.

Jackson fell asleep first, but I wake up first. When I open my eyes, I notice the sun has gone down and the breeze blowing in makes the curtains billow in an ethereal fashion.

Without waking my husband, I roll out of bed and rub my eyes, glancing out the window to the dark ocean on the way to the bathroom. I take a quick shower, and come out dressed in only a thin, white robe to stand on the open balcony.

The wind is balmy, so there's no need to tie it tightly. I stand there with the fabric parted at my chest, letting the salty air dampen my skin, and close my eyes. I'm here with my husband. I'm Jackson's wife. It's still so surreal - the fact that we're married.

"Aw, you showered without me?"

I jump a bit and look over my shoulder to find Jackson standing there dressed only in boxers. He has a sleepy smile on his face and his eyes are half-lidded, he must have woken up only moments ago.

"Hey, sleepyhead," I say.

He comes up behind me and wraps his arms around my waist, dropping his chin to the slope of my shoulder. He kisses my neck slowly, sweetly, and rubs one hand over my stomach, just below the tie of the robe.

"Want me to take it off?" I ask, my fingers trailing over his.

"Right now?" he asks.

I turn my head to look into his eyes. "Here and now," I say. "It's the middle of the night. No one will see."

"April," he says. "You don't have to… if you're trying to make me happy, you-"

"I want to," I insist, and it's the truth. Being married makes me feel bold and brazen in a way I've never experienced. I want to surprise him, and keep surprising him for years to come. "Untie it."

"You sure?"

"Jackson," I say. "Don't ruin it."

He chuckles and undoes the flimsy knot, and soon either side comes open to reveal my naked body. He pulls the fabric from my shoulders and lets it drift to the floor, where it stays.

I shiver, though I'm not cold. I've never been this bare outside the confines of a bedroom or a house, at least, and now if anyone walked by, they'd see me. We're on the fifth floor, but that isn't saying much.

"Make love to me," I say, turning around in his arms. The railing presses against the small of my back - smooth and cool. He pushes me further against it when he covers my body with his own.

But when we kiss, it's hot and searing. His lips brand mine, his tongue claims every corner of my mouth, and I give myself over. I throw my head back and he bites at my exposed throat while I dig my fingernails into his bare ribcage.

I rake them down his sides, writhing as he sucks on my neck and gropes my breasts, and take his boxers off. Now, we're both naked out in the open. I'm not sure if I've ever been so excited. With him, each time gets better. Complacency doesn't exist in our sex life.

With his hands tight on my hips, he flips me around so fast I lose my breath. I grip the railing hard, leaning forward with my back arched, ass pressed against his crotch. I can easily feel how hard he is, and grind against his erection to let him know that.

"God, you're sexy," he growls, taking a handful of my hair and moving to the side so he can kiss the back of my neck.

"Show me," I say, breathing deeply.

He doesn't waste any more time. As he pushes inside me, I gasp and close my eyes, tensing as he stays still for only a moment.

"Mmm…" he moans, one hand in the middle of my spine. As his hips thrust forward, he slides that hand around my stomach to pull me closer.

A small, high-pitched sound escapes me as he starts moving. I'd expected quick and rough, but instead he goes in the opposite direction. The movement of his hips is controlled and calculated; he buries himself completely to the hilt with each thrust. There's no rushing, no hastiness. He makes sure every inch of me is filled, and I do my best in staying upright.

Each time the front of his pelvis lines up with my ass, skin pressed against skin, he holds it there. With his body inside mine, those moments last longer than the others. His hands find my breasts and grip tightly, and every bit of skin touches. He tucks his face into the side of my neck, in my sweaty hair, and inhales.

"You feel amazing," he tells me. "You're so wet, you feel so fuckin' good wrapped around me, baby."

I shudder and arch my back further, keening against him. His thumbs rub my nipples deftly, pinching when they get hard, and he kisses the tops of my shoulders as he starts to move just a bit quicker.

"I want you to come," he says. "You gonna come for me?"

I match his rhythm now, urging my hips back when he pitches forward. The sound of our bodies colliding joins that of the waves colliding with the shore just feet away.

"I'm gonna… I want to…" I whimper, letting out a sharp breath after I speak.

"Don't worry," he says. "I'll get you there, baby."

He bends me over and starts moving faster, pushing harder. My fingers curl around the railing as I clutch it with all my might, mouth falling open in a silent scream. He fills me in every sense of the word, and I've never felt so enveloped. So consumed, so desired. This sex is on another level, and it's palpable.

We come at the same time, which he's triumphant over. While my body racks and trembles violently, he bucks against my ass and empties his heat inside me, and I feel every last drop. Even more so when he pulls out and both of us mixed together runs down my thighs, dripping past my knees all the way to the floor.

"Oh, my god," I breathe, still bent over while he kisses my spine, all the way down to the dimples on my back.

"Let's go inside," he says. "I'll clean you up."

In the shower, we go another round. And when he strips the fluffy white towel off me when we come out, he kneels on the floor and eats me out with my knees spread wide and my nails digging into his neck.

I've lost track of time. Our schedules are completely off because of the plane ride, but I don't care. After we've both lost count of how many orgasms we've had, we lie in bed together, completely naked, feeling the breeze and listening to the sea below.

"April," he says, breaking the serene silence.

"Hmm."

He takes a breath to speak, but no words come. I crane my neck to look at his face, but he won't meet my eyes.

"What, baby?" I say.

He snaps out of it and looks at me, too. For a second, his expression is serious before morphing into a comforting smile.

"Nothing," he says.

"Baby, what?" I prompt again, lifting myself onto an elbow. I rest a hand in the middle of his slightly sweaty chest and trail my nails over his sternum, feeling his subtle heartbeat beneath.

He smiles again, more for me than for him. I'm pretty sure I know what's on his mind - because it's on mine, too. And my guess is that he desperately wants to know, but he doesn't want to bring it up and ruin the moment we've created.

"I forgot," he whispers, pulling me back down. "It doesn't matter. Come here."

"You didn't forget," I say, dragging my fingers over the sparse hair on his chest. "And it does matter. Because I know what you wanna talk about. I wanna talk about it, too."

"Hmm."

I lift my eyes to his. His neck crinkles so he can see my face.

"I want to make a baby with you," I say, and once the words are out, they sit like sugar on the bottom of a water glass. Grainy, somewhat out of place, but sweet.

Back around the time he proposed, I stayed on the pill but we stopped wearing condoms. That lasted for a little while, until I realized I didn't want to be pregnant in my wedding dress. And on top of that, I realized planning for a family took more than just an errant thought or a warm, fuzzy feeling. It took dedication, commitment, and preparation. We weren't ready then, but we're married now. And looking into his eyes, I see my future. I see our children.

"How'd you know that's what I was thinking?" he asks, fingers combing through my hair.

I shrug. "Because I was thinking it, too."

He kisses my forehead, thoughts working through his mind. "I know we talked about it before, but…"

"We weren't ready then," I say. "At least, I wasn't. Not really."

"I wasn't, either," he says. "But now, I think I am."

I smile at him, I can't help it. "You think?"

He returns the grin. "I mean, I'm scared as hell," he admits. I search his face and my smile dies away, being replaced with a heavy, insistent frown. "It's okay for you to be, too," he says, thumb rubbing circles on my shoulder.

Feelings from my first pregnancy wash over me, forcing my eyes to close. I remember not knowing there was a life inside me before it was ripped away in a sea of blood on a fancy bathroom floor. That life, caked on my inner thighs, on the cotton of my underwear. The cramps following, my body expelling what I never knew it held.

My mouth goes dry. Suddenly, I'm terrified. Suddenly, the prospect of becoming pregnant is heavier than anything I've ever had to bear, and I wonder if I'm actually ready. I wonder if I was stupid and naive to bring it up, knowing I might not be able to follow through.

"Hey," he says, caressing my face. "Come back. I'm right here."

"I'm here," I respond, weakly.

"It won't be like last time," he says. "I'm here. You're here. We got this. We can make a baby. You'll be an awesome mom, you know that. We'll make awesome parents. We have the perfect house, we live in the best neighborhood, we'll learn everything about babies. We'll take classes. I'll do Lamaze with you. Baby, we can do this."

I find his eyes and see hope in them. Nothing else. Not worry, not doubt, not frustration. Only hope.

"We can?" I ask.

"Totally," he says. "We're going to be the best parents in the world. Just watch."

…

If the days on our honeymoon are spent adventurously, the nights are even more so. Jackson and I never take our hands off each other, using every opportunity available to have some kind of sex. There's no way to know how many times a day we do it, which means we sleep better than ever in paradise.

But the time eventually comes for us to go back home to our real lives. When we get back to Chicago, the air in the house is stagnant and still, so I go around opening all the windows while he lugs our suitcases upstairs.

"Babe," he says, coming down a bit later while I eat a sandwich in the kitchen. "I have a conference call they want me on in a few. You mind?"

"Go ahead," I say, waving him off. I have plans in mind, anyway.

I spent the plane ride back researching books to buy and websites to frequent about pregnancy. I want to learn the best and most effective ways to get pregnant, and how to keep my body the healthiest it can be to support a child. I want to be completely ready to harbor a new life, to make my body the best place for a fetus.

"I'm going to the library!" I shout up the stairs, hoping he hears me.

While I'm there, I check out a handful of books. _How to Get Pregnant, The Everything Getting Pregnant Book, Getting Pregnant Faster, and Before You Get Pregnant: A Guide for Couples on How to Prepare for a Healthy Conception._ I lug them all home and get comfortable on the couch while Jackson is still upstairs, wrapping myself in a blanket as I pore through the pages.

Later, I hear footsteps on the stairs while I'm still reading.

"Hey, babe," he says. "Sorry, I got caught up. You hungry? I can make something."

"Maybe," I say, not looking up from the book.

He comes behind the couch to look over my shoulder. "Whatcha got?" he asks.

I glance back at him, but only for a second. "Pregnancy books," I answer.

"Oh," he says. "Nice. I might order in sushi. Sound good?"

"Eh…" I say. "I'm off raw seafood, I think. It's not good for the baby."

He chuckles lightly. "April, you're not pregnant yet."

"I know!" I say, smiling. "But it doesn't hurt to prepare."

I download a period tracker on my phone that lets me know when I'm ovulating, and therefore the best times to have sex. I painstakingly put down every detail, satisfied once I do, and search through online articles every chance I get. I'm always learning something new.

I throw myself into baby research in the same manner I'd throw myself into a role. Usually when Jackson comes home from work, I'm on the couch doing research. And when he fall asleep, I'm sitting against the headboard with a book open on my lap, taking notes.

"Babe," he says one night, rolling over. His glasses are off, so he squints to see me.

I dog-ear the page I'm on and look at him.

"When are we gonna actually _try_ to make this baby? You know you won't get pregnant from those books by osmosis, right?"

I roll my eyes. "Don't be silly," I say.

"But really," he says.

"Soon," I say. "I start ovulating in ten days. The best time to try is a few days before that." I raise my eyebrows. "Have you been…?"

He widens his eyes. "No," he says. "I told you, that's weird. You can't just assign it to me."

I sigh, frustrated. "If you don't come at least once a day, dead sperm build up in your system. You need to be… you know. Beating it. So, when you come inside me, all of them are alive. And they can fertilize my egg."

He scrubs his hands down his face. "I tried," he groans. "It weirded me out. It made me feel all clinical and gross."

"It _is_ clinical," I say. "And we need to have sex in seven or eight days. So, I need you to jack off."

"It's not that easy. It's not like you say, jack off and I say, how hard?"

I snort. "Do you need me to do it for you?"

"I mean, preferably," he says, then goes to take off my shirt before I stop him. "What?"

"I just meant a handjob," I say. "I'm tired. I wanna go to sleep. I have a meeting with this vitamin lady tomorrow who's gonna give me all these organic supplements. They're supposed to help. It's in the morning."

He gives me a look, and I prepare for an argument. But he stays quiet.

"Sure," he says, and pulls down his pants as far as they need to go.

As it rests to one side, leaning against his thigh, it isn't hard. I glance at him, and he looks defensive.

"It's not like there was any lead-up!" he says. "Play with it. It'll get there."

I wrap my hand around the soft length and stroke gently, biting my lower lip as I do. It isn't sexy by any means, but he needs to get the dead sperm out of the way so the working ones can come through.

It gets hard eventually, because I know how to arouse my husband. He watches me work, and after I catch his eye, I bend lower and wrap my lips around the tip to suck on it gently. He moans, stroking my back while I bob up and down his length, and comes - messy and hot - all over my chin and his stomach.

"Thanks, baby," I say.

He laughs and wipes some of it off with his thumb. "Maybe I should be thanking you," he says.

"Well, our future baby is thanking both of us."

…

Two days before I start ovulating, I'm anxiously waiting for Jackson to get home from work. When I hear the lock click, I bolt up from the couch and meet him as he comes in.

"Baby," I say, breathless. "Baby. It's time."

"What?" he says, confused as he sets his stuff down. "What are you talking about? I just walked in the door."

"I start ovulating in two days," I say, eagerly. "We need to have sex."

"Well, Jesus," he says. "Hold on a minute. Let me get inside."

"I'm gonna wait upstairs!" I say, then hurry ahead of him.

He follows slowly, coming in with a granola bar in hand. I'm already naked on the bed, waiting while flipping through my trusty book that always rests on the nightstand.

"Well, hello," he says.

"Come on," I say.

"Give me a sec," he says. "Breathe, April."

I lie back and watch him get undressed, then welcome his body overtop of mine once he gets into bed. He kisses me a for a moment, then I spread my thighs and welcome him between them, pulling at his hips to send the message loud and clear.

"Baby, come on," he says, a bit sternly. "How about a little buildup? A little foreplay? I'm not a jack-in-the-box, you know. I need a minute."

I sigh. "Okay," I say, then kiss his jaw slowly, mouth open.

His hands find my breasts and squeeze softly, then I arch my back to get closer to him. We spend a lot of time with exploring hands and mouths, but when he tries to roll us over to get me on top, I protest.

"It works better missionary," I say, licking my lips. "I need to be on my back."

"Okay," he says, eyebrows furrowed a bit.

"Come on, baby, you're hard," I say. "Can you just put it in? And make sure you go really deep?"

He chews on the inside of his cheek and sinks inside me, and I relish the feeling of our bodies coming together. I keep pace with him, eyes locked together, and moan while he finishes strong while buried in me.

He smiles once it's over, a light sheen of sweat on his forehead. "Come here," he says, rolling onto his back to welcome me to sit on his torso.

"Can't," I pant. "I need to stay lying down for ten minutes." I make a horizontal motion with my hand. "It creates a better environment for the sperm, helps them find their way. I can't move."

And because I don't move, I don't see the way he looks at me.

…

We don't get pregnant that time, or the time after that. Before we know it, it's a new year and I'm still not with child.

"Three days 'til I ovulate," I tell Jackson, as we brush our teeth in front of the mirror that night.

He looks at me with tired eyes, shoulders moving with a heavy sigh.

"What?" I say.

"I'm tired of this," he says, tossing his hands up.

"Tired of what?" I ask, on edge.

"Making a baby!"

My mouth hangs open as I look at him. "You don't… want…?"

"No. Of _course_ I want a kid with you," he says, tapping his toothbrush on the sink. "But not like this. This is so… cut and dry. There's nothing intimate about sex with you anymore. It's all on a schedule, and it lasts about ten minutes. If we're lucky. We just got married, April, and it's already like this? So calculated?"

I recoil, hurt by what he said. But at the same time, I do see what he means.

"And you-"

"I know," I say, calmly.

He stops in his tracks. "You know?" he says.

I nod. "I know. I know it's the furthest thing from sexy, and I've turned it into a formula." I look up and meet his eyes with a desperate expression. "But we're not kids anymore. For it to work, it has to be like this. And this is how my brain works." I tap on my temple. "When I go through a process, I can see the outcome. This relaxes me. It makes me feel in control. And I promise, once we get pregnant, we can go back to having spontaneous, kitchen counter sex. I promise. But right now, this is what me and our future baby need. The predictability. The schedules. The supplements. The weirdness. Baby, of course I know it's weird. I don't like it, either. But it's comforting."

He stares at me for a moment, but then gives in and hugs me.

"I am sorry," I say, cheek squished against his shirt.

"I am, too," he says. "I want this to work just as bad as you do."

"It will," I say, confidently. "It'll just take time."

…

We get pregnant in March. I wake up one rainy morning with sore breasts, and a lightbulb switches on in my brain. I know all the symptoms of pregnancy backwards and forwards by now, so to me, sore breasts are a gift.

Jackson is already at work, so I take our state-of-the-art pregnancy tests that we've had ready for months, by myself. I use two, just in case, and wait with my back turned while they calibrate on the counter.

As soon as the results come in, I call my husband.

"Jackson," I squeal. "We're pregnant!"

…

A month passes, and I cherish every single day. Each day, I look up how much the baby has grown and what stage they're in. At six weeks pregnant, our baby is the size of a sweet pea, so that's what we've taken to calling it.

"Morning, sweet pea," I say, standing up out of bed.

As I descend the stairs, Jackson comes in from a run, all sweaty. He'd taken up running to increase his sperm count, but found he likes it just as much as I do. Most mornings, we go together. But today, I wanted to sleep in.

"Hi, honey," I say, smiling at him.

"Hey, baby mama," he says, winding an arm around my waist to kiss me. "How's sweet pea this morning?"

"Good," I say, lifting my shirt as he drops to his knees and kisses my belly.

"Good morning, little one," he says, stroking my stomach that's not yet showing. He stands up again and kisses me once more. "Sleep good?"

I nod. "Yeah," I say. "Fatigue is common. Gives me an excuse to be lazy."

I'm the furthest thing from lazy, though. I teach a master class during the day, and go to prenatal yoga directly after. And when I get home, Jackson and I cook a healthy dinner based on foods I should be eating to make our baby strong.

I've been staying busy, doing relatively the same routine every day. I get up, sometimes go running, go teach, do yoga, come home and spend time with my husband. Things have gotten back on track, just like I said they would, once I got pregnant. Our sex life is very alive, maybe more so than it's ever been.

We're in a good place, and I'm secure in it.

But what knocks me off-kilter is a phone call I get from my agent, Estelle. It happens in the morning, right after I've come back from my run and before my class.

"April, I have amazing news," she says. "The Goodman wants you back. They're doing a production of _Waitress_ , and they're offering you the part of Jenna."

When Jackson comes home that night, I don't greet him like usual.

"Baby?" he calls, sounding confused.

"In here," I say, from the living room.

He walks in, dropping a kiss on my head as he stands behind the couch. "You okay?" he asks. "You seem off."

"Estelle called today," I say, lifting my head to look at him. "The Goodman offered me a role."

He gasps, a smile on his face. "Hey, that's awesome," he says.

I move my lips to one side as I skim a hand over my belly. I shake my head slightly and say, "I turned it down."


	18. Chapter 18

**JACKSON**

"You turned it down?"

I can't help but frown as I stare at the back of April's head. She doesn't turn around to look at me; she keeps her eyes glued to the book.

"Yeah. I did."

I shake my head, squinting. Without taking my shoes off, I come around and sit on the couch, but she still doesn't look at me.

"Why?"

"It doesn't matter. What matters is I turned it down, and that's what happened. I told you because you're my husband, and I wanted you to know. There's no second layer to it, Jackson. I just turned down the role," she says. "That's all."

I still can't understand. "But you've never turned something down before," I say. "This isn't like you. Is something wrong?"

She flips the page. "No, nothing's wrong."

"Something must be," I say. "This is what you do. You haven't had a show since _August Osage County_. Don't you miss it?" I flop against the back of the couch. "Baby, I think you might have made a mistake. Maybe you should call Estelle and talk it over."

"I'm not gonna do that," she says.

I watch her stare at the page. Her eyes don't move, which means she isn't reading. Just zoning, so she doesn't have to make eye contact with me.

"You've talked about _Waitress_ before. You love that song, you know what one I mean. Sara Bareilles, she sings it. You love it. And you said no?"

"Yes, Jackson, I said no," she snaps. "Will you just drop it? With the last show, you didn't like what I turned into anyway."

My lips part in shock. "Wait, did you turn it down because of me?"

"No," she says, narrowing her eyes and finally looking up. "Don't be… no."

"Then why did you do it?"

"I told you!" she says, slamming the book shut. I smell the pages as she does. "There's no secret meaning. I just. Said. No."

I pinch my lips, challenging her with my eyes. "You're not telling the truth."

There's a charged moment of silence between us where we wait for the other to break. I won't, though, because I'm right. And she knows it, too.

"I'm not gonna work while I'm pregnant," she says, defiantly. "I'm just not."

I soften a bit, because the look in her eyes does, too.

"So, that's why I turned it down." She sits up straighter, lays her hands flat on her lap. "I can only be hyperfocused on one thing. You've seen how I get, you know how it is. That's how my mind works, you know, the obsessiveness. And I don't want to focus on a show right now. I want to focus on my pregnancy." She nods, solidifying her words. "My baby deserves my dedication. Not my audience."

I swallow hard. I understand where she's coming from, but that doesn't mean I agree. "I just don't know if you're thinking this all the way through," I say.

"Didn't you hear anything I just said?" she retorts. "Were you listening at all?"

"Of course I was," I say. "But I still think you're seeing this in a really black and white way. There's more to it than… babe, you could do both. You've learned how to handle things better. You'd get used to a balance. I'd help you."

She shakes her head firmly and her hair tumbles from behind her ears. "No," she says, sternly.

"I just don't want to see you miss an important opportunity," I say. I'm not trying to be pushy, but I don't want her to regret this decision down the road. I don't want her to look back and realize she could've done it, and should've.

Her cheeks swell as she grits her teeth together, and for a moment she sits there breathing loudly, heavily. Then, she blows up.

"I don't know how to balance!" she shouts, hands bunched into fists. "I never have!" She looks at me with burning eyes, emanating fire. "Why do you think the first miscarriage happened, Jackson?"

My mouth falls open. "Baby, no…" I begin.

"Don't call me 'baby' right now," she says, and I hear the onset of tears in her voice. I don't call attention to it, though. "Just, please don't."

"That's not why you lost the baby the first time," I say, though I don't hold much conviction. I wasn't there, I wasn't privy to anything that happened.

"Yes, it was," she says. "I was overworked. I was stressed. I wasn't taking care of my body. Don't you see how hard I'm trying to take care of it now? I'm doing it right this time, Jackson. And nothing is gonna get in my way."

"You have to stop blaming yourself sometime," I say, approaching it gently. She's been talking to her therapist about this topic for years, but all the same, nothing has sunken in. That causes a pinprick of worry to stab me in the gut.

"I wouldn't blame myself if I weren't guilty," she says. "I'm not taking the role. I know my body, and I know what I did. I won't do it again."

Her chest heaves without breaking eye contact, but I get up from the couch. I'm done with this fight, or whatever it is.

"Where are you going?" she asks, watching as I leave the room.

"I don't know," I say. "You've obviously made up your mind. I'm hungry, so I'm gonna eat. Is that alright with you?"

When I glance over, she looks wounded. I don't do anything to fix it, though.

"You don't have to ask…" she trails off, blinking hard.

There are perfectly good leftovers in the fridge from last night, but I refuse to eat them. Leftovers aren't my favorite, but for April I deal with them. Not tonight, though. Tonight, I order in sushi.

"I have calls to make," I say, after answering the door. "I'm gonna eat in my office. I'm swamped. Don't wait up."

"Fine," she responds, nose in the book.

I don't really have work to do at all. I'm between cases, and I filed paperwork for most of the day. I've been in a sweet period where I don't have to take the work home, so I can concentrate solely on spending time with my wife. But now, as I'm avoiding her, I don't have anything to fall back on.

When I finish dinner and go downstairs to put my dishes in the sink, I hear April on the phone.

"It's so nice to hear from you," she says, voice light and happy. "Yes. The folic acid has been amazing. I'd love to get more of that."

I sigh, letting my cheeks puff out as I put my plate in the dishwasher.

"I haven't found an all-encompassing vitamin that sits well with me, so I'd be open to trying anything you have in mind. Yeah." A slight pause. "Fish oil makes me have the most awful burps, but I know it's…" She laughs. "Yes!"

I bite the inside of my cheek as I shut the dishwasher, then pass through the living room to head back upstairs. It's much too early to go to bed, but that's all I want to do. I want tomorrow to be a new day, to be able to start fresh. And I want it to get here as soon as possible.

"And I need a refill on my Vitamin D, too," she says. "And that's it, I think. I'm good on the rest."

I leave the room before she finishes the conversation, feeling torn. I want to be with her, spend time and reconnect like we always do at the end of the day. But my frustration from earlier is still present, and I don't know what to do with it.

I look over my shoulder before ascending the stairs, and find her already looking at me.

"I'll be up in a minute," she says, setting down her phone.

Her face is flushed pink, like it's been lately. With her pregnancy has come raging hormones, and she's usually always horny and ready to have sex. Tonight isn't a great time, but I'm not about to turn it down.

"You still want to…?" I ask, eyebrows furrowed.

"Yeah," she says. "Don't you?"

"Yeah," I say. "I just wanted to make sure."

She nods. "Okay. Yeah, I'll be up in a sec."

I go upstairs and strip down to my boxers, brushing my teeth and washing my face as I wait for her. I hadn't even known she was upstairs and in bed by the time I hear her voice.

"Jackson, if you don't get in here soon, I'm gonna start masturbating!"

I can't help but chuckle, and it definitely hurries me. When I switch the bathroom light off and head into our bedroom, I see she's on the bed already naked.

Even though I'm annoyed with her stubbornness and unwillingness to see my side, I don't let that interrupt our intimacy. I crawl into bed and straddle her hips, holding her ribcage in my hands as I draw a line of kisses down the middle of her chest.

"Nipples, baby," she breathes, urging one breast towards my mouth.

As she's gotten further along in her pregnancy, her nipples have grown increasingly sensitive. Even through a shirt, through a bra, they are. So now, bare and hardened before me, every touch is electric.

The skin is pebbled beneath my tongue, and I suck on it roughly while she whimpers and moans. Her back lifts from the mattress, her knees press in on my hips, and her fingernails dig into the middle of my back. I don't move my mouth away; not when she loses her breath and scratches my skin, not when her whole body tenses before collapsing into a pile of boneless mush.

"You just…" she pants. "Baby. I came."

I pull away with a smile, wiping my mouth. "I know. I'm just that good, I guess."

"Shut up," she says, giggling.

I lick the round underside of her breast and kiss her ribs below, moving lower as I bow out her knees. Her stomach moves in and out as she breathes heavily, and when I kiss her pulsating center, she reaches down and grabs a handful of my hair.

"One thing," she says. Her face is beet red. "You absolutely cannot blow any air inside me."

I frown. "Uh, not a common tactic of mine," I say.

"I know," she says, loosening her grip. "But if you did, even accidentally, it could give us an embolism. It's really dangerous. I was reading about it."

"Us?" I ask.

"Me and the baby," she answers, like it's obvious.

"Right," I say, then nuzzle her inner thigh with the tip of my nose. "Alright, I won't. I'll be careful." I look up at her, eyes flashing. "You sure you even want it, babe?"

She rolls her eyes, playfully frustrated. "Of course I do," she says, pushing my head down. "Don't be a tease."

I laugh to myself and drag my thumbs over her outer lips, and she twitches against my touch. She whines softly when I open my mouth on her, and it changes to a groan when I flatten my tongue and push it inside her throbbing heat.

She grabs such a tight fistful of my hair that I wonder if it's going to come right out of my scalp. I don't stop, though, not when she pushes at my forehead and sobs with ecstasy, and I definitely don't stop as her orgasm begins and she does everything to escape from her own body.

"Fuck," she whispers, sweating profusely. She closes her eyes and presses her palms over them, heartbeat showing through the skin on her sternum.

Along with pregnancy, comes more powerful orgasms. It didn't take us long to figure that out, either.

After she catches her breath, I stroke myself while watching her flip over. With her face down and ass up, she arches her back and inhales deeply before looking over her shoulder to prompt me.

I grab her hips and sink inside her while our eyes stay locked. Her eyelids flutter and her chest sinks lower; she knows I have complete control now. With the side of her face pressed against the pillow and elbows bent, she presses back against me and lets me know what she wants me to do.

So, I give her what she wants. I thrust forward and grab her ass roughly, which makes her moan and shudder.

"Oh, baby…" she says, voice broken up by the rhythm of my hips. "You know… I respect… your opinion…" She grips the sheets tight in her fists. "I just know myself. And…" I scoop my hips upwards, which makes her shriek. "Oh, shit," she moans. "I know myself, and I want… this baby to be everything for us. Once… it's born… I'll figure out my career." We make eye contact so she knows her words sink in. "There'll be more roles. But right now, this… is… what I want."

I nod firmly, running a hand up her back as my hips continue, medium-paced and thorough. "I just don't want you to regret anything," I say. "I'm just trying to look out for you."

"I know," she says, closing her eyes. "I know, baby. But you just...gotta...trust me. This is the...right thing."

I bend at the waist and kiss the small of her back, and when I straighten up again, I quicken the speed of my hips. And this time, I come first. I throw my head back and let my mouth fall open, riding it out while still pumping into her with the same ferocity. As I'm winding down, she comes for a third time while pushing herself up onto her hands and shoving her body back against mine.

"Yes, yes, yes, yes," she moans, pulsing around me. "Fuck, Jackson. Fuck!"

I smile. "I love it when you curse, baby," I say. "It's so fuckin' hot."

"I know you do," she says, grinning. Her shoulders tense for a moment before relaxing fully, so she can collapse onto her chest again. I pull out and turn her over; her body soft and pliable now.

I rest with my head on her stomach, fingers stroking her belly. I kiss her damp skin every now and then, and she pets my hair with her lips ghosting over my hairline. We lie in silence for a long time, just soaking in each other's presence. I trace her bellybutton and watch the peach fuzz stand on end, and kiss her ribs because of it.

"I meant what I said," she whispers. "I do respect your opinion. And I do know you have my best interest in mind."

I nod, hearing her.

"But I also know myself really well. Meaning, I know my faults and what I'm not good at. I'm not a good multitasker. I can only be obsessed with one thing at a time."

"Why do you need to be obsessed, though?" I ask, as her fingers trace the shell of my ear. "It doesn't always have to reach that level, you know?"

"I know," she says. "But with me, it does. And I don't know how to change that."

"Does your therapist help you?"

I feel her nod. "He does. But there's still so much in my head I can't put into words."

I kiss her breast, which I happen to be using as a pillow. "I'm always here for you. You know that, right?"

"Of course I do," she says, kissing my hair. "And I don't like fighting with you. I'm sorry I get so stubborn. I do appreciate you wanting the best for me. I always appreciate that."

I wrap an arm around her waist and hug her close. "Well, I love you," I say.

"I love you, too," she says. "And that's never gonna change."

…

The next morning, the alarm goes off and wakes April, too. She's curled into my side, wearing a soft, shiny blue camisole and a matching pair of shorts. I can't exactly remember when we put pajamas on last night, but we must have at one point.

She turns her cheek and stirs a bit, and I stroke her shoulder with my thumb. "Go back to sleep," I whisper.

Her eyelashes flutter. "Are you going running?" she asks, voice raspy.

I inhale deeply and look towards the window. The sun is just coming up, and it shouldn't be too cold out. With each passing day, the temperature gets higher.

"I should," I say.

"I'll come," she replies.

"Yeah?" I say. "You don't have to. I know you're tired."

"I'm fine," she says, smiling. She opens her eyes all the way and kisses the corner of my mouth. "We should go. It'll be fun."

I agree, so we get out of bed and put running clothes on. All I need are a pair of shorts and a zip-up jacket, but April bundles up a bit more to stay warm. As she's tying up her neon pink tennis shoes, I watch her from the chair with a smile on my face.

"What are you looking at?" she says, amused as she stands up and twists her hair into a tight bun.

"You," I say. "Am I allowed?"

"Maybe not," she says, and I tap her on the butt as we walk down the stairs.

The air outside is crisp and refreshing. I breathe deeply when we step outside, invigorated by the beginning of spring, and April raises her eyebrows at me before breaking out in a trot.

We keep pace with each other easily. Neither speeds ahead or drags; we know each other's rate and meet in the middle. As the sun rises higher, I look to my wife and as I see the orange light reflecting off her pretty face, I'm at peace. In this moment, everything is right.

We jog past an elementary school on our street, and I keep my eyes on it even as it fades from view.

"You know," I say, and April looks to me. Up until this point, we hadn't been talking. Most of the time, when we run, there's just comfortable silence. "It's never too early to start researching preschools."

She smiles. "Preschools, huh?" she says. "Already?"

"Yeah," I say. "A few of the guys were talking about it at the office. Leo from down the hall said that he signed his daughter up when his wife was 6 months pregnant, and by the time Lucy was old enough, she was still on a waiting list."

"Yeah…" April says, trailing off. "I know. They can get really competitive."

"And I only want the best school for our kid," I say. "I've been looking at stuff online."

"Oh, stuff, have you?" she laughs.

"Yes," I say, returning the grin. "There's this whole hierarchy with preschools, it's insane. It's like getting into college. Because if they get into a good preschool, they'll get into a good elementary school. Then middle school, high school, which obviously will prepare them for college."

"Now who's obsessive?" she asks, ribbing me.

"Okay, fine," I say. "But don't you agree?"

"Sure, we can start looking into it," she says. "Just no Catholic schools, please. I went to one all my life, and hated it."

"I think we can work around that."

We keep running, grazing each other's upper arms every now and then in our close proximity. Once we hit the fourth mile, I have to stop and get a drink from the small water bottle I have strapped to my other arm.

"Tired already?" she asks, panting with a smile on her face. She keeps jogging in place, face flushed with exertion, ready to keep going.

"Quiet," I say, and take a long drink. "No shit-talking."

"It's not shit-talking if it's true," she says, laughing.

She starts running without me, but I don't let her get far. I shove the water bottle back in its place and spring off after her, catching up easily and picking her up with my arms locked around her waist. Her feet lift from the ground and she kicks her legs, head thrown back with laughter as she goes limp.

"Fine, fine, put me down!" she giggles, and I do. "Try and keep up this time."

We go for a bit longer before looping around to head home.

"Do you think it's a girl or boy?" I ask.

She answers without hesitating, like she'd been thinking about it. "A girl," she says.

"What makes you say that?"

She shrugs. "Mother's intuition."

I wrap an arm around her shoulders, which is awkward because we don't stop moving, but I keep it there anyway. "Oh, right," I say. "Because you're one of those now."

"Yep," she says proudly. "I'm a mother."

…

When we get back home, I get in the shower first while April makes a very healthy breakfast that she'll have along with her vitamins. She takes her meals very seriously, so I try my best not to get in her way.

Afterwards, as I stand in front of the sinks trimming my beard, April walks in the bathroom, still chewing, and strips down.

"You better not have used all the hot water," she says, turning on the jet and climbing in.

"What're you doing today?" I ask, over the buzzing of the razor.

"I'm gonna go teach," she says. "I have two classes today instead of one. Both three hours, downtown."

"Will it be fun?"

"Probably," she says. "Then after, I'm meeting Addison for a late lunch."

"That'll be nice."

"It will be, I think," she says. "What about you? What are you up to today?"

Having finished shaving, I walk into the closet and find an outfit to wear. "Same shit, different day," I call out.

"I hope it's interesting shit, at least," she says, with a giggle.

"I'm between cases right now," I say. "It'll get interesting once I pick one up."

"Then you get to be that sexy bigshot in the courtroom," she says.

"Sexy, huh?"

"You know how much that turns me on, baby," she says.

I fasten my tie and tuck my shirt in, giving myself a once-over in the mirror before walking to the shower and pulling open the glass door. "Let's make sure you get jury duty, then," I say.

"That might make things difficult for your client, counselor," she purrs, water droplets clinging to her eyelashes.

I chuckle darkly, swiping away an errant drop sliding down her cheek. "I gotta go," I say.

"Give me a kiss," she says, extending her neck and puckering her lips.

I give her a quick peck, then she waves to me with one hand on the shower handle. "See you tonight," she says.

"Have a good day, babe," I say, and wave one last time before exiting the bathroom and descending the stairs.

I get in the car and flip through the radio stations, but find everything on a commercial. I can't stand listening to those, so I press play on whatever's in the CD player at the moment, and the _RENT_ soundtrack fills the car. I don't mind, so I leave it on. I even find myself singing along to Seasons of Love with a smile on my face.

My drive to work isn't long. Only about 15 minutes with light traffic, but this morning I left a little late and hit rush hour. I'm on the Kennedy Expressway when, interrupting the song, my phone rings.

It's April's ringtone - Love on the Brain. I frown at the phone, wondering why she's calling, but pick up anyway.

"Hey, little mama. What's-"

"Jackson!" she shrieks, at the top of her lungs. "I need you. Come home, come home right now. I don't know what to do!"

I can barely understand what she's saying - her words are muddled by how hard she's crying.

"April, baby, breathe," I say, heart racing. "What's wrong? What's going on? Are you okay?"

"No!" she screams. Her voice wobbles at the top like it might break. "I'm not okay, I need you to come home!"

I pull off at the nearest exit and speed down the ramp, catching a late yellow when I pull up to the light. I hold the phone between my ear and shoulder, gripping the wheel tight with two hands.

"What's going on?" I asked, now just as panicked as she is.

"I'm having a miscarriage!" she wails, and sobs after the words come out. "There's so much blood, Jackson. There's blood everywhere. I need you, I need you right now. Please, just get home. I need you."

"I'm coming, I'm on my way, I'm-"

In the middle of my sentence, I hear a monotone 'beep, beep, beep' that ends the call.

"April?" I say, pressing down hard on the gas. "April! Goddammit. God fucking damn it!"

I don't remember the drive home, but I get there eventually. I park the car hastily on the street and leave the hazard lights on before rushing into the house. I leave the front door wide open and listen for her, only to get silence in return. Silence, until I notice the sound of running water. The shower.

"April," I call, taking the steps two at a time. I burst into the bathroom I left less than an hour ago, and find it fogged up with the shower still running. "April!"

"Shower," she says, and I hurry over, open the glass door, and shut the water off. I look to the floor and find her slumped there, knees bent and back resting against the wall. The water hadn't been hitting her, so her thighs are tinted pink with blood and there's a puddle of it under her.

"Shit," I say, and let my instincts take over. I grab the nearest towel and scoop up her soaking wet body, noticing how the fluffy white fabric turns pink instantly when it touches her. She goes limp in my arms, hair dripping onto my dress shirt, and I do my best to dry her off. "What happened?"

"Bleeding," she murmurs. "Just started bleeding. I don't know." She pauses for a moment while I bring her to our bedroom. "I lost the baby."

"You don't know that," I say. "I'm gonna find you something to wear, and we're gonna go to the hospital. Okay?"

"I do know," she says, letting the towel fall off her shoulders so she's naked and shivering.

"You don't," I say, sternly. I dig through her drawers to find a bra, thick sweatshirt, underwear and leggings, then help her into them. I do my best to run a brush through her hair, but it's wet and matted and beyond help at this point.

"It hurts," she weeps, leaning her full weight against me while she slips her feet into shoes. "It hurts, Jackson."

"We're going," I say, a guiding arm around her shoulders. "Come on. Let's get to the car. Almost there."

When we get to the hospital, April has gone lethargic. She barely makes it in to the doors, and I get her in a wheelchair as soon as we're inside.

"My wife," I say to the woman behind the glass in the ER. "She's… there's something wrong with our baby. Can you help us?"

"I want my doctor!" April screams, suddenly alert.

"The women's health center is in the next building," the woman says, wide-eyed. "You can go through this hallway, and it's located at the very end."

I break into a run, pushing April as fast as I can. She might not even notice; her eyes have glazed over and she has disappeared into her head yet again.

"I'm looking for Dr. Hollar," I say, breathless, once we get to the women's health center.

"Do you have an appointment?"

"I need to see my doctor right now!" April demands, at the top of her lungs. "I had a miscarriage, and I need to see my doctor."

The nurse blusters out from behind the counter and hurries through the back hallway, and a kind-looking woman with black hair and a medium-tone complexion hurries back with her.

"April?" she says, confused.

April stares up at her, eyes huge and glassy. "I lost the baby," she whispers.

"We don't know-" I say, but she cuts me off.

"I was bleeding, I just started bleeding and it-"

"Come on, let's get you into an exam room," Dr. Hollar says, and takes the wheelchair handles from me. Once we're in the silence of a private room, I help April onto the table and notice she's trembling. I rub her back, but it doesn't help.

"Tell me what happened," the doctor says, sitting on a rolling stool in front of us.

"I was in the shower," April explains. Now, her teeth are chattering. "And there was so much blood. I mean, maybe it wasn't a lot. I don't know. But I don't bleed like that. And I started cramping; it hurt so bad. I didn't know what was happening, but I could only assume one thing. It's happened before."

Dr. Hollar takes April's hands. "We don't know for sure," she says. "I'm going to take a look, then we'll figure things out from there."

Instead of watching the screen during the ultrasound, I watch Dr. Hollar's face. And without her having to say a word, I know the result. April does, too.

"I knew it," April whispers, eyes tilted to the ceiling.

Her hands are folded over her ribcage, and her hair has dried into a rat's nest. Right now, that should be the last thing on my mind, but I can't stop focusing on it. I trace the curls with my eyes, noticing how they wind together in a frizzy mess near the top. There's no part to speak of, and a section of it has dried nearly straight up. It looks nothing like it normally does.

With a somber voice, Dr. Hollar speaks. "There is still tissue present," she says. "So, to prevent infection, I'm going to do a D&C. It's a short procedure where I can clear all that. I don't want you in any more pain, April. Does that sound good?"

April shrugs and nods. Soundlessly, tears roll from the corners of her eyes and into her ears.

I don't know what to say. I don't know how to help. So, I just stand there. A pillar of silence and wavering strength.

"And I'll take some tissue to do tests," the doctor says. "There might be a reason this happened a second time. And this will help me find out."

April nods again. I stare at a poster that shows the stages of a fetus during pregnancy. My eyes gravitate to the sixth week, and notice our baby looked like some sort of shrimp-like creature. Not cute in the slightest, but that was our shrimp. And now, that shrimp is gone.

Dr. Hollar just sucked out the remnants of it with a vacuum-like tool.

Once April is back in regular clothes and the sample of tissue is taken away, the doctor speaks again.

"You might feel some cramping," she says. "Bleeding is common for the-"

"I know," April says.

Her eyes are empty and hollow. Her skin is pale, cheeks sunken. When I touch her hand, it's cold. Like there's not life inside her anymore.

And I guess, in a way, there isn't.


	19. Chapter 19

**APRIL**

"Baby killer."

Jackson drives quickly, but the ride goes slow. My abdomen aches, along with the area between my legs. I just experienced minor surgery. But what hurts more than the physical pain is knowing I did this to yet another life.

"Baby killer," I whisper again, teeth gritted together.

I rest my forehead against the window, watching but not seeing the world pass by outside. We're on the Kennedy Expressway, which is lined with trash along the sides. My eye catches a flyaway Target bag and a crushed cup from Taco Bell.

My hands lie limply on my lap, both facing upward, palms towards the ceiling. I keep my forehead against the cool window, but move my gaze to rest on the vulnerable, soft skin of my hands.

I turn them in towards each other and rake my fingernails gently over the fleshy skin under my thumb. It's pliable and supple, bouncing back after I press in.

"Baby killer," I murmur again, and dig my nails in. It's not enough, though.

Instead of just scratching them across the surface, I pinch my pointer fingernail and thumbnail together, trapping the skin inside. I wince, but push past my tolerance point. My lips pinch and I blink hard, tears spring to my eyes, yet I still don't stop.

I can take the pain. I deserve it.

I let go for a moment, relieved, only to pinch the same spot again. I don't give myself the privilege of finding new, untouched skin. I go back to the wounded area and hurt it a second time. To make the pain worse.

"Baby killer."

"What?" Jackson asks.

When he looks my way, we're sitting at a stoplight. His eyes are soft and wondering, glassy and mournful. He's aching, too.

But all I can wrap my head around in this moment is my pain. Not his.

"I didn't say anything," I mutter, shaking my head. The light turns green, we exit the expressway, and he directs his eyes forward once again.

I pinch the inner skin of my wrists, but it still isn't enough. The tears welling in my eyes are hot and insistent, and I'm desperate to inflict the pain to my body that's swarthing inside my head. I want to be able to conceptualize something, have something to fix, patch something I can see.

I drop my chin and look to my lap again. I'm wearing thin leggings, so I slip one hand between my legs and pinch the soft skin of my thigh. I recoil using the pads of my fingers alone, so when I switch to fingernails, I can barely take it. I twist and pull at the skin, suffering through the pain as tears drip down my cheeks.

"Baby killer," I mutter, but it's still not enough.

I stop pinching and land a punch in the middle of my thigh, directly over the bone. It's not hard enough, though, when I drop my fist. So, I try again and use the other leg, which catches Jackson's attention.

"What are you-... April, what are you doing?"

"Baby killer!" I shout, whaling on my legs so hard I already feel the bruises blossoming. I don't care, though. I keep hitting, hoping the bruises will create some sort of mosaic I can look back on later to remember my punishment. Remember I did something to deserve this; that my anger towards myself wasn't unwarranted.

"April!" Jackson yells, and veers the car to the side of the road, past the bike lane. He slams it into park and unbuckles hastily, facing me as best he can. "Stop it! Stop it, you're gonna hurt yourself."

"Good!" I sob, arms still flying.

"Stop," he says sternly, grappling for my wrists.

When he gets a good grip on them, I scream. With my eyes squinted shut and mouth wide open, I let out the most heartbroken, raw sound I've ever heard. My chest splinters and everything spills from it, falls between us, bubbling slowly.

"I killed our baby!" I cry, head thrown back. I fight to free my arms from his hold, but it does no good. He's much stronger than I am.

"Honey, no," he says, voice wobbling. I don't need to open my eyes to know he's crying, too. I know the sound by now. "Stop it. You don't know what you're saying. We just need to get home so you can rest."

"I - killed - it," I say, struggling.

"I'm not letting you go," he says. "I won't let you hurt yourself. You're not gonna do that."

Nothing he's saying sinks in. I keep pushing and pulling, but he won't budge. Soon enough, I tire myself out and sit there with limp arms, gazing into his empty eyes with ones equally as hollow.

"I'm done," I whisper, and he backs away slowly. I don't fake him out, don't go for my legs or hands again, because I'm spent. Suddenly, every ounce of energy has drained, and I'm a shell of a person. A husk, something so full of nothingness I could blow away with an errant breeze.

When we get home, Jackson supports my entire weight and helps me inside. The sun is shining, which feels out of place. He brings me upstairs to our room, and I squint against the light.

"Close the blinds," I murmur, lifting my arms above my head while he takes off my hoodie and helps me into a t-shirt.

We were at the hospital for a good chunk of the day. Now, it's almost dinnertime and it somehow feels like this day was wiped from the calendar. Like it never happened. Like, maybe, somehow, I'm still pregnant. I'm still harboring our little life.

I can dream about it while knowing it's not true. I know it's not true, because if I concentrate, I still feel the suction between my thighs, sucking out the life I snuffed.

"Are you hungry at all?" Jackson asks, sitting on the edge of the bed.

I shake my head.

He doesn't speak for a while. His eyes gravitate towards the floor, hands capped over his knees. He's deep in thought. I don't take my eyes off him until he opens his mouth.

"No matter what you think, it wasn't your fault," he says, quietly.

I search his face. What had been vibrant this morning is now sullen, accepting our fate. He knows what happened and he's going to try and lay it to rest. That's how he works. Something happens, he smoothes it over and fixes it. And he makes it look so easy.

"You think it is," I say, eyes smoldering but voice weak.

He physically recoils from my words, lips parting in surprise. "No…" he says. "How could… why would you say that, April?"

I turn over so my back faces him. He doesn't budge.

"I blame myself," I say. "So, it's fine that you do, too. You'd be right, anyway. It's my body. It only could've been my fault."

"You didn't do anything wrong," he says, defensively. "You did everything right. We need to talk to Dr. Hollar about those test results. There has to be something that will tell us-"

"No," I say, firmly. "I don't want to see the results."

I stare, eyes plastered open, out the window where the sun sets. I feel his gaze behind me, searing into my back.

"You don't want to see the results?" he says. "Why?"

I pull the covers closer to my chest. "Because they don't matter," I say. "I killed the baby. That's what happened. What more do we need to know?"

"A lot!" he roars. "There's a whole lot more we need to know. Like, maybe, I don't know… _why_ it happened?"

"We're never gonna know why," I say, pressing my lips against the blanket. "It just did. And I don't want another reason why I'm inadequate."

"So, you don't want to know if there's a way to fix it," he says. "That's what you're telling me."

"What happened already happened!" I say. "I just want to go to sleep. Can you just leave me alone, please, Jackson? Can you do that for me? Just stop yelling so I can go to sleep. I know I fucked up. I know today was awful, and it's all my fault. But I just want to go to sleep."

"I can't… I can't be around you right now," Jackson says, and his footsteps leave the room just as I'm closing my eyes.

I wake up in the middle of the night to a silent house. I've pushed the covers off, and I'm lying flat on my back with the t-shirt ridden halfway up my belly. Just a day ago, had I woken up like this, I would've used the opportunity to talk to the baby. Maybe get up, have some water and a snack, and head back to bed feeling satisfied. I would lie there and drag my fingertips over the soft skin, letting my little life know that its mama was right here alongside them.

But now, when I touch my stomach, its emptiness stares me in the face. Nothing's in there, life or otherwise. There's no purpose in stroking it, I'm not comforting anyone but myself. There's no life to hold onto, no life to sustain or nurture.

But I badly wish there was. When I was pregnant, I had a purpose just like the purpose I hold on stage. I had a goal, an endpoint, something to work for. At the end of the nine months, there would be a baby in my arms. And my first dream, when I was a little girl playing house with my sisters and our baby dolls, was to be a mother.

Even though it's caused me more heartbreak than anything else in my life thus far, I'm not ready to give up on that dream yet.

…

The first thing I do when I wake up the next day is take my folic acid. Before, I took it while trying to conceive because it's supposed to do wonders for a woman's body before and during pregnancy. When I toss the pill back with a slug of water, I feel somewhat like myself again. I've stepped one foot back into my old routine, reminded myself of why I'm doing this.

I wouldn't put myself through all this strife if there weren't an amazing reward at the finish.

I'll start over fresh. Not to forget what I've lost, but to keep in perspective what I have to gain. With beauty, comes pain. No matter how you look at it.

When I go downstairs already dressed, I find Jackson on the couch. He's sprawled out uncomfortably, and I have the urge to go over and cover him with a blanket. I don't do it, though. I'm not his favorite person at the moment, and I don't expect his mind to have changed overnight.

I won't hold it against him if he doesn't ever see my side. Gray area doesn't exist in his realm, so it's impossible for us to be on the same page all the time. That's how marriage works, and I'm aware of that.

But not only do I love him, he's also essential in creating the baby I'm already dreaming of. The baby who won't replace its siblings that fell before it, but who will show us that life prevails over anything. This baby will be the personification of hope. We just have to keep that hope within ourselves while we make it.

Jackson wakes up as I come out of the kitchen, having just finished a spinach omelet for breakfast. He rubs his eyes and sits up halfway on the couch, squinting through the brightness of the living room.

"Morning," I say, brushing my curls out of my face.

He looks over like he doesn't recognize me, tracking me with his eyes as I walk to the door to put my shoes on.

"Are you okay?" I ask.

"Are _you_?"

"I'm fine," I say, wide smile painted on my lips. "I'm great."

He sits up further. His hair is a mess, sticking up every which way. His eyes narrow and his mouth opens slightly; he's the picture of confusion. It's obvious he doesn't know how I'm up and about right now, instead of being a lump of grief in our bed upstairs.

"What are you doing, April?" he says. "Where're you going?"

"Out to lunch with Addie," I say. "I missed it yesterday, so I'm making it up to her today."

His eyes squint further. "April…" he trails off, shaking his head. "What's going on?"

"Nothing," I say. "I just want to get out of the house. It's a nice day. Maybe you and I could go running later."

"Running…" he says, like it's a foreign word. "Running? Why would I go running? April, we lost a baby yesterday. And now, you're acting like nothing happened."

"I know what happened," I snap. "I was there."

"That's not what I meant," he says, then stands. His pajamas are rumpled and twisted; the drawstring of his pants is closer to one hip than the middle. "Take a day. You don't have to get right back on the horse. Addie will understand."

"Addie doesn't know," I say, lightly. "And I don't want her to. I'm gonna keep living my life, Jackson. It happened, and… it happened. I'm not pretending it didn't. But this is what I can do, and I'm doing it. I'm living my life. I'm not gonna stop."

He stares at me, dumbfounded, as I sling my purse over my shoulder and open the door.

"I'll be back later," I say. "Maybe we could go for a walk, or something."

The look in his eyes still says he doesn't know me, but I leave the house without another word.

…

"So, what happened yesterday?" Addie asks, a Caesar salad in front of her.

Addison never knew I was pregnant in the first place. Jackson and I hadn't told many people, because with my ever-public lifestyle, the both of us have taken to valuing privacy more than ever. Which ended up being a benefit for us, given the situation.

"Class just ran late," I say. "Sorry. I didn't mean to stand you up. It was so rude of me."

"No big deal," she says, taking a bite. "I just thought something bad happened, like you were dead on the road somewhere."

"Addie, come on," I say, giving her a look. "You know me. I'm always fine."

She nods, and continues eating.

"So, how are you and Jackson doing?" she asks. "Being married and all that. Is it everything you thought it would be?"

I smile, chewing before I start talking. "We're trying for a baby," I say.

She gasps, an excited smile on her gaping mouth. "Oh, my gosh," she says. "That's amazing! That's the most beautiful thing I've ever heard. Your kids will be gorgeous."

"Yeah, we're really excited," I say. "I'm doing everything I can to stay healthy. And he is, too."

"Has it been easy, or…? Any bumps in the road?" she asks.

Heat floods my face, but only for a moment. It's a normal question. It doesn't mean she knows something. It doesn't mean she knows I'm lying through my teeth and showing her a skewed version of what had been the truth. I don't know where Jackson and I stand as partners now, only where I stand alone.

"It'll be fine," I say. "It'll be great. We're both strong and in perfect health. What could go wrong?"

"Well, that's amazing," Addison says. "I'm happy for you both. You have to let me know how it goes. You know, I love babies."

"I will," I say.

We spend a while catching up on things she's missed since the wedding. We've seen each other a few times since then, but not anything substantial like this. I'd originally planned on spending only about an hour at lunch, but it easily turns into three before I realize I should get going.

On the way home, I walk past Buy Buy Baby and stare at the larger-than-life banners in the windows. Babies of every skin color, smiling with toys in their chubby hands. I marvel at their adorable faces, and don't bother fighting the urge to go inside.

"Hi, there!" a saleswoman says, instantly. I look at her and see her name tag reads 'Anna.' "What can I help you with today?"

I'm overcome by all the supplies in the store; the shelves are stocked to the ceiling, going further back that what seems possible. From what I can see, they sell everything from strollers to pacifiers and everything in between.

"I… um," I say, then smile cordially. "Hi. My husband and I… we're…"

I debate lying. I've been lying all day. But, for some reason, while I could lie right to Addison's face, I can't stomach another one to this girl whom I don't know.

"Trying for a baby," I finish.

"Well, you can never be too prepared," Anna says. "Did you come in for anything specific, or are you just browsing today?"

The first thing I focus on is something called a jogging stroller. "What's this?" I ask, pointing to it.

"Oh, this. It's perfect for active moms," she says. "Or dads! You can strap baby in nice and tight, and take them on a run with you. It's extremely durable, a really smooth ride, and comfy for the little one. It's gotten great reviews. It's one of our top-sellers. Did you want to see a floor model?"

That's all it takes. The afternoon already got away from me with the extended lunch with Addison, and I end up spending two more hours inside Buy Buy Baby. By the time I leave, I have the jogging stroller, a stylish diaper bag, a baby monitor with a camera, and a mini-bathtub that will fit in the sink. Stuck in the diaper bag are three packs of pacifiers, an ear thermometer, a plush blanket and a set of three tiny hats - pink, yellow and blue. Because, of course, we don't know the sex yet.

Since the baby isn't even conceived.

I take an Uber home since I can't walk with all the merchandise I bought, and somehow make it through the door while lugging all of it. I make quite the commotion, and Jackson comes from the kitchen looking disturbed and confused.

"Hey," I say, breathless as I shut the door behind me. The boxes for the stroller and mini-bathtub sit at my feet, and the diaper bag is slung over the same shoulder as my purse.

"Hey…" he says, eyes roving my wares. "What's… what is all this?"

"Just stuff for the baby," I say, extending my arms. "I have to show you this. The salesgirl was so nice, she was telling me all about this stroller that's made specifically for runners. We can take the baby with us when we go!"

He stares at the box for a long time without seeing it. Then, he lifts his eyes and I find them hooded and dark.

"What baby, April?" he spits. "What fucking baby?"

"Jackson…" I say, taking a step back.

"We lost our goddamn child yesterday!" he says, and his voice cracks at the top. His lips tremble and his chin grows weak; he's trying his best to hold back tears. "And you're pretending like it never happened. I can't keep up with you. First, you're beating the shit out of your legs and calling yourself a baby killer. Now, you're going on shopping sprees for the baby that doesn't fucking exist."

"Stop," I say, weakly. My eyes are hot, and tears fall when I blink.

"Just tell me what I'm supposed to do here, because I have no motherfucking clue," he says. "Are you in pain? Are you hiding it? Or are you just over it that fast? What am I supposed to feel? What do you plan on _letting_ me feel, April?"

I gasp. My lips move in ways I can't control, and no words come out for a long time.

"You can feel however you want to…" I say, then stare at the stroller box.

"Can I, though?" he says. "Because you want to control everything else. Are you sure you don't want to tuck my emotions with all the rest of that shit, too?"

"Jackson, stop!" I say, crossing my shaky arms over my torso. "I'm not trying to control anything. I'm just trying… I'm just… can't you see how bad I want this? I want a family so bad. I want a family with _you_. And I'll do anything to get it. Anything. I just want this to work."

I chew on my lower lip, worrying it so hard I taste a hint of blood.

"I'm sad," I say, then break eye contact. "I'm broken. Losing that little baby… there's a part of me that won't ever be fixed. Knowing I did that, knowing my one job was to keep it safe and I couldn't. But what better way to heal than to try again?"

His face blanches. I can't read his mind, and it troubles me.

"I woke up this morning with that mindset," I say. "I realize now I'm moving too fast for you. I want to give you space to grieve. I guess I just didn't…"

"It was my baby, too," he says, and his tone hasn't softened at all. I wonder if anything I've said has sunk in - or maybe, it has, and he hates me for it. "And it's gone. It was my baby, too."

I inhale and hear it rattle. "We can try again," I say. "It doesn't have to be the end, we don't have to give up."

"It was yesterday, April!" he says. "Do you hear yourself? It was one day ago."

"I know!" I shout back. "I was there!"

The air festers between us. Neither of us back down, and I don't plan to anytime soon.

"I need time," he says. "I can't jump right back in. I'm not like you, apparently."

"What's that supposed to mean?" I spit.

"It doesn't mean anything," he says.

"What do you mean 'like me?'" I ask. "Do you think I'm not traumatized over what happened to my baby?"

"Our baby!" he insists. " _Our_ baby!"

"It was my blood on the shower floor," I say. "You picked _me_ up soaking wet, got _me_ dressed and took me to the hospital where they told me _my_ body killed another one. It wasn't you. You didn't do this. But you get to have the same pain as me, or worse? How does that work?"

"Why are you comparing our pain now?" he says. "We were parents, April."

"We _are_ parents," I say.

"To what?" he responds.

"A baby, if you'd let me try again!" I counter. "We wouldn't have to feel so empty if you'd just try again with me. It doesn't have to hurt this bad. Why can't you understand that a fresh start is possible? You're stronger than you think, Jackson. Humans in general can overcome a lot. We can get through this, we just have to try. And in a few weeks, once I'm healed, we can get back on our pre-pregnancy regime. I know you didn't like it, I wasn't crazy about it either, but it did work once. And it'll work again. I'll get pregnant, and it'll hold. I'll do better."

"You don't know that," he says, holding his temples.

"Yes, I do," I say. "I can feel it. Mother's intuition, remember?"

"You're not-"

"Don't you dare," I say, tone changing instantly. I clench my jaw when I say, "I'm still a mother, even though neither of my babies are here. Never take that away from me. I won't let you."

He's silent now, run out of things to say.

"Maybe you should go back to work," he says. "Do a show. Do your thing, and see how you feel once it's over. And maybe then, that would be a good time to try. It would give us both a reprieve, time to recover."

I shake my head, adamant as ever. "I don't want to do a show," I say.

He looks at me, chest sunken and eyes defeated.

"I want a baby," I say. "I want to be pregnant. And nothing's gonna stop me."

"April, do you hear yourself when you speak?" he says. Now, his eyes are burning. "Do you think about anyone else but yourself? Do you take me into consideration at all?"

"Of course… of course, I do," I say. "What do you mean?"

"I want this, I want that, I want to be pregnant, I want a baby," he prattles off. "Well, I want to be sad for one goddamn fucking day before you go off starting a baby registry!"

The tears restart and flow down my cheeks faster. Leaving the baby items where they sit, I turn on my heel and head up the stairs.

"Fine," I say, without looking back. "Be sad. Take the time you need."

"Why do you I feel like you're punishing me?" he calls behind me.

"I'm not getting any younger, Jackson!" I say, turning around on the stairs and bunching my hands into fists. "I need to get pregnant. I need to have a baby. I'm already over 30, and did you know that's considered a geriatric pregnancy? I'm already a high risk. And you want to push it off longer. But no, that's fine. Be sad. Take your time. Take all the time in the world."

"You're not being fair," he says. "Stop lashing out at me."

" _You're_ not being fair," I throw back. "I'm not being selfish when I say I want a baby. I want _your_ baby. You're included in all my future visions and dreams. But now, you don't want to give those to me."

He shakes his head. "You're never going to hear me," he says.

"And you're choosing not to hear me," I say. "I'm going to bed."

"It's not even 7," he says.

"I'm going to bed," I repeat, and don't look back.

…

I spend a long time thinking over what Jackson told me. In the same place I had my revelation last night, I do my best to reach another. I stare at a tree just outside the window as the evening passes, just breathing and blinking as thoughts pass through my mind.

Getting pregnant is hard. Marriage is harder.

I'm facing the opposite way when Jackson comes in to brush his teeth. When he comes back out, probably to leave again, I speak.

"I'll give you time," I say.

It's obvious I've surprised him. "What?" he says.

I roll over and sit up. "I'll give you time," I say. "I understand what you're going through. The first time wrecked me. Worse than wrecked me, you know that. I don't want to wreck you. I'm not trying to wreck us."

He takes one step closer, but stops himself.

"I can't wait forever, though," I say, voice soft and unassuming, so different from earlier. "I don't want to push our future far off."

The look in his eyes is wary, like he's waiting for a catch. There isn't one, though. I'm done talking, waiting for a response.

"Okay," he says.

"And if you need a shoulder, I'm here," I say. "I don't want to fight. This is just really, really hard."

He walks a bit closer. He's almost in my reach now.

"I didn't know it would be this hard," I admit, holding his eyes.

"Yeah, I don't think anyone does," he says. "But… thank you."

I nod. He doesn't need to specify what he's thanking me for. And in reality, he doesn't need to thank me at all. I'm adult enough to know that this time, I needed to give in.

"I love you," I say. "Even when we fight, I still love you. You know that, right?"

He smiles a bit. "I think that's kinda what marriage is all about," he says.

…

Jackson and I grieve together for two months. In that time, we get two headstones made for our babies that never were. Something physical to sit next to in the yard and mourn with made it easier for us both to hold the sadness in our hands, and eventually, tuck it somewhere safe. And that sadness stays hidden, only pulled out when we forget what the melancholy flavor in the back of our throats tastes like.

As the months pass and we agree to start trying again, we connect on a deeper level than before. He knows what it takes, and so do I. We have scheduled sex, and he doesn't get on my case for being too anal, and I don't get on him for every nitpicky detail. We work symbiotically this time, for a goal we both want more than anything. And now, for some reason, it seems closer than ever. It seems like this time, it'll stick.

We've gone through too much for it not to.

Last time, we got pregnant in March and lost the baby in mid-April. This time, we get pregnant in late August, and find out when the sun is beating down from the middle of the sky. I took the pregnancy tests in the bathroom with the sunlight streaming in, and rushed down where he sat on the deck. I flew into his arms and we laughed like we'd just won the lottery. Because to us, it felt just like that.

Now, it's January, and I'm 20 weeks pregnant. My bump is noticeable, and our child is a very active little girl. We found that out just last month.

Right now, I'm in the kitchen wearing a tank top and shorts. Even though it's the dead of winter, I'm always hot.

"Hi, baby!" I call, as I hear the front door come open.

"Ooh, baby, I like that," a voice calls back. It's not Jackson, but Addison. "Honey, I'm home!"

"Addie!" I say, setting down the jar of jam that I was eating straight out of. "What are you doing?"

"I picked something up on my way home from work," she says. "Something I just couldn't wait to give to little Rosie."

Rosemary Elise is the name we've chosen for our little girl, and the nickname 'Rosie' has already been adopted. Addison is her godmother, and she stops over a couple times a week with gifts she 'just couldn't wait to give to Rosie.'

Today, she comes with a light pink onesie with print on the front. It says: 'I'm cute, Mom's cute, Dad's lucky.'

"Addie, this is adorable," I say, and take it from her. I lay it flat against my protruding belly, and Rosie kicks in response. "Oh! She likes it," I say, with a smile.

"I thought she would," Addie says, then leans forward and gives me a solid kiss on the forehead. "I'm proud of you, sunshine."

Over the past few months, I've gotten closer with Addison than I've ever been with a female friend. I've let her in on all my secrets and strife, and told her the details of the pregnancy ups and downs from before. I came clean on the lunch date we had, though she promised me it wasn't a big deal. She's been by my side almost as much as Jackson has, with an outsider's perspective. She's helped me more than she knows over the past five months, because though she doesn't have children, she has the wisdom of a mother.

"Thanks, Adds," I say, then hear the front door come open again. "Oh, that's Jackson."

"Hey, Jacks!" Addie calls out.

"That you, Addie?"

"Yep," she says, walking through the hall to meet him at the door. "Just came by to drop off something for baby Ro."

I hold up the onesie and Jackson rolls his eyes playfully. "I'm glad it's at my expense," he says.

"Well, what can I say?" Addie says. "I know my audience. Have a good night, you guys. April, I'll see you later this week?"

"Sounds good," I say, waving her off.

Jackson walks into the kitchen after setting his stuff down and winds his arms around me from the side. One hand rests on the small of my back and the other skims over my belly slowly, his fingers fanned out to reach as much as possible.

Feeling her daddy's touch, Rosie starts to kick and spin.

"Hey, little mama," he says to me, lips moving against my temple. "How are my girls?"

"We're good," I sing, leaning against him. "Happy."

"Good," he says. "That's what I like to hear."

"How was your day?"

"Long," he says, kissing my head once more. "I'm glad to be home with you."

"I'm glad, too," I say. "I'm making chicken enchiladas. Sound good?"

He nods with a smile. "Sounds great," he says. "I can't thank Ro-Ro enough for getting you on the spicy food train. Speaking of which…" He drops to his knees in front of me and lifts my tank top. "I didn't say hi to you yet. Hi, baby girl. Daddy's home."

Rosie does a twirl and presses a foot against my stomach, right under Jackson's palm.

"She knows," I say, warmly. "She'd know that voice anywhere."

He stands up again and holds my shoulders while kissing my forehead. "I'm gonna go change," he says. "Be right back down."

We eat dinner and talk about our days like usual. I tell him about the students in the new class I'm teaching and how well I think we'll get along, and about the characters on the train ride downtown. He tells me how the new hire got fired within the first week of being there, and the crazy way in which he reacted. We laugh together and connect after the day apart, and I'm happy to just spend time around him.

My muscles are usually tense after a long day, so I get in the bath while Jackson makes our bed. I washed the sheets today, so everything needs to be put back on, and he talks to me while he does it.

"Is there room for me in that tub?" he asks.

I smile to myself, eyes closed. "Not unless you want to crush your wife and daughter," I say.

"Damn," he says. "Baby, you want your electric blanket?"

"I get too hot at night for it now," I say. "And anyway, I can just steal your body heat."

"Thanks for that."

He comes into the bathroom a bit later and drops a kiss on my hairline, and I grin softly. He brushes his teeth and I stay lying there with my eyes closed, the bathwater still warm and pleasant as the time passes.

"You coming to bed soon?" he asks.

"Yeah," I say, finally opening my eyes and sitting up. The water splashes around me as I do. "Just a sec."

I dry off, wash my face, and get ready to lay down. When I meet him under the covers, he pulls my body close and tucks his face into my neck, smelling the sweet bath salts.

"You smell amazing," he says, kissing my throat. "I could eat you."

"Please, don't," I giggle, one hand resting on his chest.

He settles down and pets my hair back from my face, studying my features while holding me close. "You're so beautiful," he says.

"So are you," I reply, and we both smile.

One hand moves to stroke my belly, his thumb rubbing slow circles over the swell of it. Right now, Rosie is still and asleep, just like we will be soon.

My eyelids grow heavy as we lie together. "I was thinking about coming downtown and meeting you for lunch tomorrow," I say, nestling against his chest.

"I'd love that," he says, tickling my back. "We can get pizza."

"One cheat day," I say. "That's it."

"Mm-hmm," he says, and I hear the smile in his voice. "Okay."

"I'm falling asleep," I whisper. "Goodnight."

He kisses the top of my head and says, "Night, little mama."

…

The next morning, I wake up on my back. Jackson stirs beside me, reaching over to shut off the blaring alarm clock. I smack my lips together to cure my dry mouth and open my eyes slowly, inhaling to wake myself up.

"Hey, baby," he says, sitting up to set his feet on the floor. "It's early. Go back to sleep."

Usually, I wouldn't be able to because Rosie wakes up around the time Jackson does and starts kicking like mad. She wants me up and eating, which is what we always say. But today, I feel no movement from her.

"Wake up, little girl," I sing in a whisper. "Wake up in there."

"She's not up yet?" Jackson asks, walking around the foot of the bed towards the bathroom, scratching the back of his neck as he goes.

"Not yet," I say, rubbing my belly. "Come on, little sleepyhead. Spin for Mama."

Jackson peeks his head out of the bathroom. "She's lazy like you."

I show him a weak smile, but it fades. I'm still doing my best to wake Rosie up - ever since she's been able to move, she's woken me in the morning. This is the first day she hasn't.

"Time to rise and shine, baby," I sing, hoping the lilting tones will rise her, but they don't.

I pinch my lips and situate so my back is against the headboard. As I move, I feel something strange between my legs, though, so I lift the covers to see what it is.

With the sunlight flowing in from the windows, and against the stark white of our sheets, I can see the wide, dark stain perfectly clearly.

It's blood.


	20. Chapter 20

**JACKSON**

The hospital has become familiar to us now, too familiar. As April sits on an exam table wearing a gown, the look on her face is blank and empty. It's something I've seen consistently for the past two days.

The tests took a while to go through, and today is when we find out. Her hand is slack in mine, but I stroke her knuckles all the same. I glance at her briefly, but don't settle for long. I concentrate on the poster showcasing the stages of pregnancy instead.

Rosie had fully developed arms, legs, head and body. She used to suck her thumb in sonograms. There's still a photo of her doing just that on the fridge at home. I wonder if I'll be able to pass by and look at it when we go back, or if it'll have to be taken down.

Her fingers were the tiniest things I'd ever seen. But, interrupting my thoughts about that now, Dr. Hollar comes in the room quietly.

"Good afternoon," she says. Her voice is even and soft, eyes guarded and sympathetic. But she has no idea the pain we're in. She doesn't deserve to wear that expression. "I picked up your results from the lab. I'd like to go over them with you."

Both mine and April's eyes rest on the woman who's been alongside us for both pregnancies. I watch her mouth move and the information she's telling us somehow gets into my mind without my hearing it. The room goes silent though her mouth moves, and I lean to the side to rest my head against April's arm.

Dr. Hollar says the term 'incompetent cervix' in regards to April. It doesn't sit right with me, because April is competent with everything she does. She pulls her weight along with others', too; using the word 'incompetent' just doesn't add up. Nothing about her is incompetent. That can't be right.

But it is. An incompetent cervix, the doctor tells us, is when the pressure of a baby causes the cervix to open too early. This almost always results in miscarriage, and is what happened to April and Rosie. Dr. Hollar hadn't known to look for it, and checking isn't involved in a routine prenatal appointment.

This abnormality can be caused by a number of things. Previous surgery, damage during a difficult birth, or a prior D&C.

A prior D&C. That sticks out, and causes me to open my mouth.

"April had a D&C after the first miscarriage," I say, then shake my head. "The second one. The one before Rosie. You gave her a D&C to remove the excess tissue."

Dr. Hollar nods. "Yes, that's correct," she says.

"And you said that an incompetent cervix can be caused by a prior D&C," I continue. "Which you gave to her. So, shouldn't you have known that it was something to check for? Why didn't you check?"

April's hand lands on my wrist, soft as a butterfly. "Jackson," she whispers.

Her voice sounds like rough sandpaper being crushed. She's barely spoken over the last 48 hours - it's dusty from disuse.

"No," I say, blinking hard. "I want to know. Could this have been prevented?"

Dr. Hollar clears her throat, clearly uncomfortable. "There is a stitch we perform called a cerclage, usually around 14 weeks. It comes out around 37 weeks so there can be a successful delivery. It keeps the cervix intact."

"If you would have known," I argue, the lawyer side of me coming out. "That stitch would've gone in. So, in reality, the loss of my daughter's life could have been prevented had you taken a moment to think ahead."

"There's no way of knowing-"

"Of course there is," I say. "You just said so yourself."

"Jackson," April whispers again, now stroking my skin. "There's nothing we can do now."

"No, there's not," I say. "You're right. But I still want to know. What about the other miscarriages? The ones before Rosie? How did those happen?"

"I have no way of knowing," Dr. Hollar says. "I'm not clear if the cervix was weakened before the D&C procedure or not. Those results are inconclusive."

April hangs her head, staring down at her knobby knees.

"But you do bring up an important point, Jackson," the doctor says. "We know what the problem is, so it can be easily fixed. The stitch-"

April holds up a flat hand, shaking her head just slightly. "No," she says, and I stand to wrap an arm around her shoulder.

"You don't want to hear the solution?" Dr. Hollar asks.

April shakes her head. I stare down the doctor with fiery eyes.

"This will be the last time you see us," I say. "We'll be moving our business elsewhere."

The walk with April out of the hospital is slow. It's almost strange, to be leaving, as we've spent every second of the last two days in here. All of them awake and hollow, waiting to be told what to do next.

April had to deliver Rosemary. She was induced at 20 weeks and we both sat on the bed in a quiet delivery room with the lights dimmed, holding each other. She pushed, but made no sound. The mother was as silent as her daughter when she was born.

Rosie never cried. She never breathed, moved, or opened her eyes. She will never take her first steps, play peek-a-boo, or laugh.

But she was held. For the mere moments she was on this earth, though she wasn't living, we held her. She was tinier than I thought possible, wrapped in a soft hospital blanket, close to April's heart.

We told her how beautiful she was, and how loved. Though in regards to the latter, it wasn't something we needed to say with words. She knew. She always knew.

Her skin was cold and damp. Her head was oblong and features pinched, but she was ours. She was our little Rosie, the one who'd flip when she heard my voice and who'd wake April up every morning with kicks. She was our little girl, gone.

She'll be laid to rest under the ground next to her siblings, with a stone of her own. We've already decided to plant rose bushes beside her grave, to plant life above the child who never experienced it.

In the car, April and I are quiet. It's a different kind of quiet than I've ever known - the weight of dual grief sits between us. Not angry, not crouching and ready to pounce, simply just there. We're both completely aware of its presence, but do nothing to chase it away. It's almost welcome; we've become used to it.

"She was smart," April says, eyes centered on the dashboard. "Just by looking at her. You know, I could tell she was really smart."

I glance over briefly before placing my eyes back on the road. "Of course she was," I say. "She was so smart."

Her chin trembles as she inhales, shaky and loud. "She had, um…" she touches her forehead. "She had your big forehead."

"Yeah," I say, throat clogging. "She did, didn't she? And she had your dainty, little hands."

"Yeah," April peeps, nodding while pinching her lips together. "They were so… small. So small."

I keep one hand on the wheel and use the other to grasp hers tightly. She looks to me with watery eyes, and I give her a firm nod. A nod that says: _We can do this. We did this. We are doing this._

…

Our house looks the same. Nothing about us is like it was when we left, but the structure surrounding is unyielding. There's still a blanket tossed over the back of the couch, haphazardly folded because I was the one to do it. My glasses case still sits on the coffee table, open and empty. There's a half-full cup of coffee in the sink in the kitchen.

This place is untouched, through everything. Our lives have been turned upside down and looted through, but this has stayed the same.

"I'll run a bath for you," I tell April, one hand between her shoulder blades as she slips out of her shoes.

"Thanks," she says.

I go upstairs first and change clothes, kneeling by the tub as I wait for the water to reach a good temperature. With one hand under the stream, I look up and see the baby tub April purchased all those months ago, unwrapped and staring at me. We'd set it by our tub because this is where we decided to eventually use it. We thought Rosie's tiny body would be in that tub in just four months as we gave her her first bath.

Now, the sight of that tiny tub is like a fist around my throat. Squeezing tight, not letting air in, I can't breathe. And when I do finally catch my breath, it's only to cry.

I don't make much sound. I let my neck go slack and my chin drops to my chest, tears flowing steadily onto the chest of my shirt.

I hadn't let myself cry before this. When the miscarriage was confirmed, I stayed stoic. During Rosie's birth, I was strong. While we held her, I did my best to smile because I knew I'd never get the moment back.

But now, I break. And there are pieces that simply disappear, gone forever, that will never again fit back in my puzzle. When Rosie left, she took a bit of me with her.

As I plug the tub and the water begins to fill it, I straighten up. I hear footsteps on the stairs, and soon April comes into the bathroom without making eye contact. Instead, she strips down and pulls on a robe, waiting for the water to get higher before climbing in.

She sits on the lip of the tub, and I lift my face to hers. By the changing look in her eyes, I can tell she knows I've been crying. She doesn't say a word, though. Instead, she uses her thumbs to wipe away the tear stains and keeps her hands where they are, cupping my jaw.

"You're a good man, Jackson," she says, very softly. Her eyes are dry, but soulful and filled with emotion.

My lower lip trembles, and I inch closer to her. I rest my head on her lap as the water fills behind us, and she strokes my head gently.

"Thank you," I manage to say.

When the bath is ready, April takes off her robe and hands it to me before slipping inside. I take care of it and unpack what little we brought to the hospital, while watching her sink under the water.

Her eyes stay shut and her hair fans out in a starburst around her head. She stays under for a long time, and I know what she's doing. Under the water, it's silent. It must feel safe. It must feel like a removal from this world, this life, this tragedy, for one simple moment. So, I let her stay.

She resurfaces a few moments later, breathing easily and dripping. After that, she doesn't speak. She rests against the tub, head leaned back and hair plastered to her face, staring into space.

There's not much left to be said.

Later that night, after April falls asleep, I get out of bed. I'm restless, and I don't want my constant tossing and turning to wake her. I make a cup of tea with honey and drink it standing in front of the sink, staring at my distorted reflection in the picture window in the living room. Even if I could see it clearly, I'm not sure I would recognize myself.

The anger and sadness inside me don't cancel each other out. One isn't more than the other; both are equally heavy, equally saturated and deep-seated.

April would probably still be pregnant right now had our doctor done her job correctly. Had she carried out her duties to the fullest, April would still be harboring the life of our perfect little girl. That little girl wouldn't be in a tiny coffin, ready to be buried alongside the other lost lives in our garden.

She hadn't checked for what she should have known to be a risk. She didn't take that extra step, even while knowing April had a history of miscarriages. I clench my jaw and find no reason not to place the blame on her. It was her misstep that caused this demise, her misstep that wrecked the vision April and I held for our future family.

"Goddammit," I mutter, finishing my tea.

My face grows hot, body buzzing. Everything would be fine had she just held up her end of the deal. It was her job, and she didn't do it. It was her job to take care of April and make sure our baby stayed healthy. She didn't do either of those things.

"God fucking damn it!" I shout, and throw the glass mug into the sink as hard as I can.

It shatters instantly, sending navy blue chunks of glass flying, but I don't care. I leave the mess and land one palm hard onto the granite countertop, shoulders hunched by my hears.

This was preventable. Our loss, our pain, this death, was entirely preventable.

We hadn't done much in physically preparing for Rosie yet. The house isn't baby-proofed, there are no toys sitting out, no high chair fastened to the breakfast bar. But there is an electric bottle cleaner by the coffee maker and bottles stored inside the cupboards, so I do what I can in taking care of those. I gather them in my arms and tuck them away, where April won't see them.

We don't need a reminder.

After I put away the baby things, I clean up the glass mess. Carefully, I pick up the shards and gather them in one palm. When I go to pick up the last one, though, it slices my thumb just a bit. But instead of flinching or going to rinse it right away, I watch the blood coagulate. It rises to the surface and beads before dripping down near my nail and then onto the porcelain of the sink.

Against the white, it turns pink. Pink, like April's blood on the shower floor. Pink, like the walls of Rosie's nursery.

…

A week goes by. A week where April and I barely speak. It isn't that we're shutting each other out, it's that we understand the pain by now. It doesn't need to be verbalized. It hurts enough without hearing it. I see it when I look into her eyes, and I'm sure mine mirror the same.

I go back to work, but April takes a break from teaching. She doesn't specify how long, but something tells me she won't be back for a while. Her students had been invested in her pregnancy, and excited for the baby. I probably wouldn't be able to go back and face them, either.

April closes up the nursery one day while I'm at work. When I come home, I notice the usually-open door shut tightly, but I don't bring it up. I agree with what she's done. Catching the sun streaming in through the sheers was enough to make me cry in the early morning, and not seeing it is easier.

Dinner is usually ready when I come home. April has always been a good cook, but now she's better than ever. She found something to focus on, and it benefits both of us. It does her good to eat well. I was afraid she'd waste away after losing the weight Rosie gave her.

And at night, we go to bed together. It's different than how it used to be. Instead of finding each other under the covers for sexual needs and desires, we find each other due to primal need. If I don't fall asleep holding her, I won't fall asleep at all. She gravitates to me like a moth to a flame, wrapping her limbs tight as vices as if I'd ever let her go.

We're each other's life rafts. One of us letting go would mean certain death for the other.

Tonight is no different. I'm spooning her from behind, both arms wrapped around her - one over her belly and the other beneath her neck. Every curve of her body fits against mine, and when she blinks I feel her eyelashes on my skin.

"Jackson," she whispers, one hand overlapping mine. She traces the knuckles and veins absentmindedly before entwining our fingers.

"Yeah?"

She takes pause before speaking again. I hear an inhale, but no words follow. At least, not directly. It takes her a while to get out what she wants to say.

"I don't think I can do it again," she finally says.

She's voiced what I already knew. It isn't a big shock or surprise, it doesn't cause a wave of emotions to erupt. It's fact. It just is.

"I know," I say, tucking my face into the side of her neck. "I can't, either."

Though we both already knew, it was something that needed to be said. It's a relief to have it out there, and to be on the same page. The grief doesn't go away by any means, but it settles differently. Instead of hulking over us, it sits comfortably now.

In the morning, I wake up with her head on my chest. I gently blow away a few stray tendrils of hair that tickle my face, and she stirs. I listen to the familiar sounds of her waking up, and smile as she stretches against me.

We lie there together without saying a word, at first. She knows I'm awake and I know she is, too. And that's enough.

"Two people can be a family," she says, dragging her fingernails down the middle of my chest and back up again. "Me and you, we're a family."

I kiss the top of her head. It smells the same as always.

"Me and you," I say.

…

A year goes by before April gets back on stage. But when she does, starring as Becca in _Rabbit Hole_ , it was something we discussed in depth.

The big deal wasn't April returning to the stage. The big deal was the plot of the play, which centers around a couple who lost their four-year-old son. It hit close to home, but because April has gone through intensive therapy both individually and with me, she used her struggles to strengthen the character. The character did not break her. Through Becca, she shined. She became herself again, the girl I fell in love with.

Not like I didn't fall in love with her through hiccups and hard times, too. Those showed me, on a deeper level, unconditional love for a spouse. I love her when she flies into my arms after a performance, and also when I find her on the couch with Rosie's sonogram in her hands.

We still take time to remember our baby. It's hard not to feel as if there's a presence, bigger than both of us, that's missing.

I haven't brought it up, though part of me knows April is thinking it, too. The subject of children isn't easy to broach, even casually, for either of us. It's a wound with tender stitches that will bleed if provoked, and we have yet to learn how to better suture it.

But the hole is palpable. In the house, in our lives, in general. It doesn't take a rocket scientist to figure out what should fill it, either. There's a space between the two armchairs in the living room that would be perfect for a playpen, a spot in the backyard for a jungle gym, and room at the dining room table for a high chair.

Our lifestyle begs for a child. But I know neither of us could handle the loss again, so I'm between a rock and a hard place, stuck with nowhere to go.

Or at least, that's what I thought. After turning the idea of a baby over in my head for days, weeks, months, I'm driving downtown when I see an ad on the bus stop.

 _She'll have your hopes, your dreams, your love. Who cares if she doesn't have your eyes?_

It's advertising an adoption agency. And I stare at it for such a long time that the light turns green and the person behind me lays on their horn, forcing me onward.

But the ad doesn't leave my mind all day. Not while I'm speaking with the judge in his chambers, not while I'm in the courtroom, or back at the firm. So, while I have a moment of free time during lunch, I research adoption agencies in Chicago and come across a few that look trustworthy.

Adoption. Surprisingly, the thought has never crossed my mind before. I've always been set on the traditional route of having a baby, so there was never room for another option. But now, seeing the smiling faces of the babies and children on these websites, it lights up something new in me.

The ad was right. There are children out there who need homes, who need a family. Who need love just as much as April and I do. And we have the means to nurture them.

I go to the website of the Adoption Center of Illinois and click through the process. It's by no means easy or short, but it's doable. I can't help the excited feeling in my stomach as I read what all goes into adopting a baby. We'd have to go through home checks, background checks, interviews, and classes, but April and I are the picture-perfect couple. There's nothing here that would be hard for us.

I read about making photo books and writing bios that a birth mother would read. I can practically picture mine and April's and how great it would be. There's no reason why a pregnant mother wouldn't choose us.

I write down the agency's name and phone number in the notepad of my phone and close the tab feeling hopeful, which is something I haven't felt so purely in a while. It's a welcomed, refreshing feeling that I'd like to stick around.

When I go home that night, I'm bursting with the news. April is in the kitchen, cooking as usual, because it's an off-day for her. No rehearsals, no performances. When I catch a glance of her from the doorway, I smile at how beautiful she is. Effortlessly so, as well. Her red hair is tied up in a bun with small pieces tumbling out, she's wearing a long-sleeved dress and a simple apron, but to me she is always stunning.

"Hi, honey," she says, nudging diced potatoes in a skillet.

Her voice is quiet, which isn't unusual presently. Though we're not in the deep throes of grief anymore, it did change us both as people. Instead of the loud, confident woman she once was, she's grown more subdued and withdrawn. Instead of inserting herself in a conversation, now she'd rather bow out of it. Rosie's passing took a bit of April's fire with it.

"Hey, beautiful," I say. "Smells good. And you look good."

She smirks and glances at me briefly. "You're in a good mood," she says.

"I am," I reply, smiling. I sit at the counter, but get right back up again. "Need help with anything? I can do something. Just tell me what."

She gives me another look. I don't usually talk this fast, or this energetically, when I get home from work. Or at all, for that matter, and she's reading me like a book. She knows something is different.

"The green beans can come out of the oven," she says, then hands me the mitts. "Here."

I take the casserole dish out and set it on the wooden island. "Yum," I say.

"What's up with you?" she asks, tipping her head so hair moves away from her eyes. Helping her out, I tuck it behind her ear. "You're all up, up, up."

"I am," I say again. "Because I was doing research today."

She raises her eyebrows, seasoning the potatoes. "On what?" she asks.

I lick my lips and take the lower one into my mouth. "Uh, adoption," I say, then pause. "I saw an ad and it sparked something. I guess, before now, I never really thought about it. But then, I _was_ thinking about it. A lot. So, I decided to look into it, just a little. Just to see what it's all about. And it seems pretty awesome."

"Adoption," she says, trying out the word. "You're talking like… from Ghana or Ethiopia, something like that?"

"No," I say. "No, not at all. Right here, right in Chicago. After this whole process, you basically put together a photo book and your life story. And birth mothers pick you. And you're kinda there with them along the way, and you're at the hospital when the baby's born. It's different than you'd think, it's way more personal. And there are so many kids out there who need homes."

"There are," she says, turning off the burner but letting the potatoes sit.

"It's just something to think about," I say, plucking one out and popping it in my mouth. "These are amazing, by the way. But, yeah. I'm not trying to pressure you at all. At all. But I know you feel it, too, in this house. The emptiness."

She meets my eyes, an earnest look in hers. "This house needs a baby," she says, very quietly.

"Yeah," I say, nodding. The feeling of hope is back, even stronger.

"And we need a baby," she says.

"Yeah," I say again, now smiling widely.

She shrugs, an open expression on her face, palms towards the ceiling. "I'm up for it," she says. "I want to try."

"Seriously?" I say.

She nods, giggling a bit. "It's a new dream," she says.

I wrap her in my arms, rocking us from foot to foot. I kiss the top of her head and hold her tight, smelling that ever-familiar scent.

"I have so much love to give to a baby," she says, lifting her chin to meet my eyes.

"I know you do," I say. "Oh, baby, I know you do."

She holds me tight around the waist, pressing her forehead against my sternum. "Thank you," she whispers, almost too quiet for me to hear. "I love you."

I smile to myself, resting my chin on top of her head. "I wish I could tell you how much I love you," I tell her.

…

April and I begin the process like the guide tells us. We go to a meeting and learn the basics of adoption, information that neither of us knew before. April dutifully takes notes, immersing herself in a manner that's healthy. She never takes her eyes off the speaker, not once during the two-hour-long meeting. When it's finished, she has pages and pages of handwritten notes.

After the meeting, we're allowed to submit an application. After the application, comes an interview at the adoption agency office along with paperwork, and a home visit following that.

We bent over backwards to make our home look nice for the social worker. Preparing for her, April went through dozens of outfits to make herself look young, but not too young. Distinguished, but not overly so. Mature, but not stodgy. And well-off, but not pretentious.

For me, I choose a simple jeans and dress shirt combo.

When the woman comes in, my stomach jumps with nerves and April's hands are sweaty. She keeps wiping them on the skirt of her dress, and when she's not doing that, she's fidgeting and messing with her hair. I try to be the calm force between us, try not to let my nerves show on the outside.

The woman judges our every move, roaming through each room of the house to scrutinize it. April and I follow while leaving decent space in between, watching her and trying to read what she writes down.

"I love to cook," April inserts. "I can cook anything. So, our meals would be very well-balanced and healthy. Just ask my husband."

"Very healthy," I say, nodding. "Well-balanced."

"That's nice," the woman says.

"And my schedule is flexible," April says. "Jackson works downtown during the day, he's a lawyer. Which you know. But I'm a performer, which you also know, but I don't have to be on stage all the time. I've been in the business long enough to have pretty good clout here, not saying that I'm big-time famous or anything, I don't have the kind of lifestyle where my child would be put in the spotlight. Not at all. It's not like that. But when I'm not performing, I teach master classes. Downtown, in the morning. So, honestly, I could bring the baby with me. Strap her to my chest and just teach the class! Or him," she says. "Or him."

The social worker gives her a strange look. I tell April with my eyes to stop babbling, but in her state of high energy she doesn't pick up my cue.

"You'd need to baby-proof this house," the woman says. "Outlets, baby gates, cupboard locks. All of that would need to be done. You understand, right?"

"Of course, of course we do," April says, hands out. "Of course. We just haven't gotten around to that yet. Jackson was, uh, actually going to pick that stuff up later this week."

"Sure was," I agree.

She nods, moving back downstairs. "Do you have a wedding photo?" she asks. "The mothers always enjoy seeing a wedding photo."

"Yes, absolutely!" April shrills. "We did include it in the photo book, but-"

"Oh, you already made one?"

"Oh, yes," April says, coming around the corner with a frame in her hands. "I sent it in. I hope that's not too presumptuous. I didn't mean for it to be. I just like to be prepared. Very prepared, and very organized."

"Very organized," I echo.

April laughs nervously and pats my thigh as we sit down. "We've wanted a baby for a very long time," she says. "We've gone through… plenty of our own struggles. But we have a lot of love to give to a child, and we'd be so lucky to have the opportunity to do so."

The woman gives April a look, then writes something down.

"I'll be honest with you," she says, looking up. Both of us hold our breath. "You two are good candidates. You look good on paper and off. You should be very hopeful."

"Oh," April lets out a sound of relief, holding her heart with one hand and my thigh with the other. "Thank you. Thank you, oh god, thank you for saying that."

As April wipes at her eyes, I make eye contact with the social worker and we share a steady moment. "Thank you," I say, and nod in her direction.

She nods back, and I give her a smile while April rambles on beside me.

…

I'm at work on a Friday when I get the call. I pick up the phone, distracted by my computer, not even looking away when I answer.

"Jackson Avery?"

"Speaking."

"Good afternoon. I'm calling on behalf of the Adoption Center of Illinois. My name is Janice, your caseworker. As you know, all of your information went through and your profile has been up for a few days now. Well, I'm calling to let you know that we have a mother interested in pairing with you."

I almost drop the phone.

"What?" I say, then clear my throat and try to regain composure. "I mean, that's amazing news. That's… that's perfect. What happens next?"

"I'm about to give your wife a call," Janice says. "Then, we'll schedule a meeting for both of you to meet the birth mother here at the agency, in person."

I've barely hung up with Janice before April calls.

"Did you hear?" she squeals. "Did you hear? There's somebody who wants us! Jackson, we're going to meet her! We're going to have a baby!"

My smile might break my face. "We're gonna have a baby," I say, laughing gleefully.

"This is happening!"

"We're doing this," I say, leaning back and putting my feet up on the desk. "We're freaking doing this."

I get home that night and April meets me at the door, instantly wrapping her arms wrapped around my shoulders so I lift her feet from the ground. She's laughing and crying at the same time, face buried in my neck.

"We're having a baby," she sings, after I put her down. She does a little dance and keeps singing, "We're having a baby!"

I can't help but join her. "We're having a baby," I say, then spin her out before twirling her back in. "We're having a baby."

We skip dinner that night and head straight upstairs. It's not that we don't have sex regularly anymore, but things are different now. We don't attack each other every night, so when it does happen, it's sacred and special. And tonight, for an even bigger reason.

"Let me undress you," I say, backing her up to the bed until her knees buckle and force her to sit.

She grins up at me, shaking her hair behind her shoulders. "Go ahead," she says.

She's wearing a button-up t-shirt dress with a collar, so I start at the top. I go slowly with the buttons, marveling at each new inch of skin that gets revealed before leaning in to kiss it. Once enough are undone, she shimmies out from the top until only the skirt is left, a light blue bra on top.

"Lay back," I say, and she does, with her arms extended above her. I kiss the space between her breasts, the apex of her ribs and lower, right above her belly button. Her skin is warm and smooth, and damp when I run my tongue over it.

Gently, I pull the skirt from her legs and she gasps when I do. She giggles and rests her feet on my shoulders, legs bending up before flopping down as I crawl onto the bed with her.

"You're so gorgeous," I say, fingers locked around the waistband of her underwear. She lifts her hips as I pull them off and toss them to the side, still smiling. I part her knees and widen them as far as they'll go, making eye contact while dragging my fingers over her lips and inner thighs.

There's a sparkle in her eyes when she asks, "Are you gonna go down on me?"

It's not much, but I hold onto the way her voice sounds. The upward tilt, the laughing undertone, sounds just like the old April. The carefree, light, unscarred one that I used to know. The one who she left behind and grew from has unearthed herself.

Or maybe, it isn't her old self at all. Instead it's the sadness, pared away by a sharp knife, revealing the fresh, green wick of happiness that's still inside.

"There's nothing else I'd rather do to you," I say, bending at the waist and massaging her thighs. "I wanna make you feel good, baby."

"Okay…" she whispers, exhaling loudly. She relaxes fully against the mattress while I go to work, sucking, licking and fingering, and I relish the sound of her voice as she gets loud. She hasn't gotten loud in a long time, and it makes me realize that something has broken free inside her.

Something's been lit, come alive. And I've never been more ready to embrace it.

She comes with a staccato scream, hips twitching of their own accord as I lick up what I've done. Her hair sticks to her forehead with sweat and her skin is flushed; she's so beautiful I don't know what to do with myself besides sink inside her and connect on a level that I only know with my wife.

I start slow, dragging out the motion of my hips and concentrating on her breasts as I do. I suck a nipple hard into my mouth with an aggressive sound of suction, and she arches her back dramatically. When I hitch one leg higher and bend the knee, she moans for so long that her voice tapers off and dies at the end.

I kiss her neck with one hand on her breast, massaging, while continuing to thrust.

"Oh, baby," she moans, breathless. "Oh, shit, baby."

"Uh-huh," I grunt, my cheek pressed to hers. "I know."

"I wanna feel you," she urges, clawing at my sides. "Oh, fuck, I wanna feel you so bad. Come on, baby. Give it to me."

I bite down on my lower lip and, with one final thrust, orgasm inside her. As our bodies connect in every sense, I fill her with heat and feel her muscles flutter and contract around me while she devolves into a mess of moans and animalistic sounds.

We don't clean up right away after it's over. I'm not ready to move away from her yet, and she's definitely not trying to get up, either. We lie there for a while, holding each other and waiting for our heartbeats to slow.

"I missed you," she whispers.

I haven't gone anywhere, but I know exactly what she means. Because I've missed her, too. Because, though she's been right in front of me, she wasn't really. And now, it seems both of us have returned to full capacity.

"I'm back," I say, kissing her soundly on the lips.

She smiles when we pull away, saying, "Me, too."

…

A couple weeks later, it's the day of our adoption appointment. I'm standing in front of the mirror straightening my tie, and April has been in the bathroom for what seems like forever.

I do what else I have left to get ready, but get antsy once another fifteen minute passes and she's still not out. It's unusual that the door is closed, anyway. It's almost always open when one of us is in there.

"Babe," I say, walking up the stairs with purpose. "Babe, what are you doing?"

I hear some sort of muffled sound, but I'm unclear on what it is.

"We gotta leave in like, five!" I say, standing near the door. "Are you ready?"

I raise my eyebrows, waiting for a response. When I don't get one, I grow a bit concerned. Instead of hearing her voice, I hear some awful sort of retching sound.

"Jesus," I say, surprised. I find the door unlocked, so I open it. I see April fully dressed and crouching by the toilet, legs curled, arms wrapped around the bowl. She wipes a bit of vomit off her face as she looks up to meet my eyes. "Shit, baby, are you sick?" I ask, stepping closer.

"No," she says, taking the towel I hand to her. "I'm pregnant."


	21. Chapter 21

**APRIL**

With a sour mouth, I stare at Jackson where he stands. His lips are parted slightly, hands paused mid-air, words stuck in his throat.

I stay on the floor, hugging the toilet bowl. My period is late by six days and my breasts ache. It doesn't take a genius to realize what's going on. I've been in denial, waiting patiently for my period to arrive, but it never did.

And now, as I've just thrown up my breakfast, I can't ignore this anymore.

"What… are you sure?" Jackson stammers.

I lick my lips. The inside of my mouth is filmy, and I need to rinse it out and re-brush my teeth.

"Yeah," I say, nodding slightly.

"Like, sure-sure?" he prompts again.

I give him a look. "I've been through it enough times, Jackson," I snap.

"Right."

The air is quiet, still. Neither of us know how to react. It's impossible to ignore the small flicker of excitement in my chest, the flame stoked by a bit of oxygen.

But the snuffer sits in the corner, waiting for me to fill with hope so it can put that little flame out.

I'm cautious to get excited for anything anymore, because of how badly I've been burned. Especially anything to deal with children and pregnancy. I've learned the hard way to keep my expectations near the ground. That way, it's not as easy to get hurt.

I stare at Jackson as I sift through my thoughts. Now isn't the time for an in-depth conversation about the miniscule fetus inside me. Now is the time for moving away from the toilet, straightening up, and making it to the adoption agency in time for our appointment.

"We have to deal with this later," I say, pushing away from the bowl.

He snaps back to earth. "Right, right…" he says, still out of it. "We have to go."

It's the middle of winter, February. The winter months after Christmas are always the worst in Chicago because there are no holidays to look forward to, only pure ice and snow. The cold seems never-ending, the snow nonstop. Before the heat kicks on in the car, I hunch my shoulders by my ears and shiver, clasping my gloved hands together.

As we drive slowly, Jackson plants a hand on my knee. He rubs it comfortingly, but keeps his eyes faced forward. 

"It'll be fine," he says.

I'm not sure which one of us he's convincing.

"I know," I say.

I can say the same for myself.

I let out a long gust of air that appears in front of me like a billow of smoke. "Should we tell Janice?" I ask.

He glances at me quickly. "I don't know," he says. "I don't think so. Don't you think we should talk about it first? When we have the time to actually talk about it?"

I nod, staring down at my boots. "Yeah," I say. "Yeah, you're right."

"It can stay between us for now," he says. "We can just go in, meet the birth mom like we planned on doing. To them, nothing's different. It's just a meeting."

"Well, a pretty serious meeting," I say. "It's not the interview. She actually chose us."

"Yeah, I know."

I sigh again, this time through my nose. I can't think too deeply about this right now, or I'll spiral. And I can't afford a spiral when we're about to go meet a woman who we're trying to impress.

When we get to the agency, Jackson winds an arm around the small of my back as we trek through the icy parking lot. I look at him briefly, noticing the extra care he's taking, but then wonder if I'm reading too much into it. But had he not known I'm pregnant, would he had just taken my hand instead of guiding me like this?

"Thanks," I say, quietly, arms drawn into my chest to keep warm.

He smiles slightly. "I got you."

We make it inside and immediately shed our winter gear, hanging it on a coat rack near the door. Jackson helps me out of my coat and gives me a kiss on the forehead, and I squeeze his hand as we go sit down in the lobby.

"Mr. and Mrs. Avery," we hear, and look up to see Janice coming down the hallway. She's dressed in a long purple cardigan and glasses with rhinestones at the corners. She always smells like incense because it burns in her office. Usually, I don't mind. But now, my nose is affected by pregnancy and the smell practically overtakes me.

"Hi," Jackson says, and we both stand.

Professionally, I still go by April Kepner. It's how everyone knows me. But legally, I did change my name to April Avery because it was important to me to have something of Jackson's. To me, the name meant even more than the ring.

"I'm so glad you could make it," Janice says, smiling. "Follow me back to my office. She's waiting for you."

My stomach twists and I might throw up again, I'm that nervous. I wring my hands together and take a deep breath, glancing up at Jackson while we walk behind Janice.

"It's okay," he says, always my pillar of strength. "We got this."

"We got this," I repeat, in a whisper.

As we walk, he circles an arm around my shoulders and firmly kisses the side of my head, reassuring me that he's here and we're okay.

Janice leads us into a small room, her office that we've been in a handful of times. As usual, the smell is strong, but I put on a brave face through watering eyes and ignore it as best I can.

"Sophia," Janice says, and the small woman sitting in one of three chairs picks up her head. "This is Jackson and April Avery. The adoptive couple you chose."

Jackson and I walk around the chairs to sit down, then see her face clearly. She's Caucasian with a small frame, dainty shoulders and bony hands. Her eyes are too big for her face and her lips are pale - she is embodying the nerves inside me right now.

"Hi," she says, meekly, extending her hand. "I'm Sophia."

"It's so nice to meet you," I say, feeling warmth rise in my gut that reminds me of what I'd feel when Rosie would kick. I feel an urge to mother this girl. She can't be more than eighteen. "I'm April. This is my husband, Jackson. We're so happy to be here, and we're so grateful you chose us."

We sit down. Sophia is on the far left, me in the middle, and Jackson to my right.

"The reason I like to bring couples and birth mothers together is so you can all get to know one another," Janice says. "April and Jackson. I asked you to prepare some questions you might have for Sophia, and she's brought along some that she has for you as well."

My eyes dart to the girl's lap, where she's holding a folded-up piece of paper with doodles at the corners.

"Yes, of course," I say, then look to Jackson as my hands are clasped on my lap. "Babe, did you want to start, or me?"

"Uh, I can take the floor for a minute," he says, then nods towards Sophia. "First off, I want to tell you how much we appreciate what you're doing. We appreciate everything. What you're doing is no small feat."

"At all," I echo.

Jackson looks back and makes eye contact with me. We don't have a sheet of paper with questions because we've prepared in the days leading up to this interview what we wanted to ask her.

"So, when's your baby due?" he asks.

"Early October," she says. "I'm about four weeks along right now." She skims a hand over her belly, and I have to resist the urge to do the same.

"That's great," Jackson says, nodding.

"I know you can't tell yet," Sophia says. "But I really am pregnant. And I'm not a slut."

My eyes widen. "Oh, no, honey," I say. "We didn't… no, we don't think like that."

Creases appear on her forehead and her mouth turns into a firm, straight line. One tear drips down her cheek as she says, "Good. Because I'm not."

"Is that what made you start thinking about adoption?" Jackson continues. "That people would think you're a slut? Because-"

"You don't understand," Sophia says. She turns to us, and her fine, long blonde hair swivels with her. "I'm an honor student. I'm in the Top 10 of my class. I play center forward on the varsity soccer team, and I got a full ride to UCLA. This baby… this baby isn't mine. It doesn't feel like it is, anyway. And I don't want it. Even if I tried to raise it, which I couldn't do, it would always know that. Babies are like dogs that way, they can smell it on you. I want to give away it to a couple like you guys, who'll take care of it and give it everything it needs. I can't do that. I'm a freaking kid. None of this was ever supposed to happen."

"I understand," Jackson says.

"Do you mind if I ask… what the father thinks?" I ask, softly.

Her eyes flash. "He wanted me to get rid of it," she says. "Kill it, abort it, or whatever. And I even went to the place, to the clinic, I was gonna try. But I got freaked out and left. There were people protesting outside the door, calling me a baby killer."

I flinch at the term and tip my head to the side, closing my eyes for a moment. Jackson's hand finds its way to the middle of my back, where it stays.

"That's awful," I say.

"So, yeah. I don't have a relationship with him, and I guess I never really did. He doesn't give a shit what I do. We broke up."

"I'm really sorry to hear that," I say.

She shrugs angrily. "He doesn't matter."

"What about your parents?" Jackson asks.

She lets out a long breath. "They don't want me to keep it, either. It's been their dream for me to go to UCLA my whole life. That's what they want for me. And that's what I want, too. They don't want to have a grandkid right now." She shakes her head. "They look at me different ever since it happened. Like they don't even know me anymore."

I nod slowly. "I know how that feels," I say.

She scoffs, sounding just like a teenager. "I doubt it," she says. "What have you ever done wrong?"

I raise my eyebrows. "A whole lot," I say. "Believe it or not."

She rolls her eyes. "Like what?"

"Well, my mom had high hopes for me, too," I say. I'm not sure why I'm delving into this, but I feel the need to. This woman, girl, really, is holding the life of our future child. "She still does. I never disappointed her with my career, that's always come easily for me. But what she wanted were grandbabies, and lots of them. Um, I had a miscarriage when I was 23. I didn't know I was pregnant."

Her eyes widen and soften as she looks over to me. She doesn't make eye contact, though. She stares at the sparkling ring on my finger instead.

"I'm…" she trails off.

"It was brutal," I say, openly. "It ripped me apart. Without getting into the whole story, it separated me from the love of my life." I nod towards Jackson. "Him."

Sophia's eyes flit to my husband now, as she tries to put the pieces together.

"But we found each other again, ten years later," I say, with a smile. "And we planned to have a baby after we got married. I got pregnant again, but only carried the fetus for six weeks. Then, I had another miscarriage. On the shower floor."

She's silent, taking in every word I say.

"But we persevered and tried again," I continue. "And I got pregnant for a third time. That time, I thought it would stick. I had my Rosie for 20 weeks. She was big enough to kick, big enough to name, big enough to get attached to. But I lost her. One morning, she stopped moving. And I bled through our mattress."

We've since gotten a new one and thrown the old out.

"And with every new miscarriage, something inside me died. It was more than the baby, more than the hope for new life. It was the hope I had for myself, you know? Why couldn't my body do what a woman was created to do? What was so inadequate about me, that I couldn't?" I shake my head. "The point I'm trying to reach centers around the look on my mother's face. Every time I told her, she seemed a little older. A little more weathered, more disappointed. Not in me, but what my body had taken away. Again. That's not me projecting, either. I know that woman, I grew up with her. And with every new miscarriage, she felt I drifted a bit further away."

I clear my throat. Janice is silent, and Sophia fidgets.

"I know what it feels like to not know yourself," I say. "I know what it's like to have your parents see you differently because of something you can't control." I reach across and take her hand; it's cold in mine. "It doesn't make you a bad person, Sophia. It changes you, but there's always something to be learned from it. A new part of yourself to get familiar with. No matter if other people understand or not. What matters is if you do. That you give yourself grace, that you give yourself room to grieve, to grow, to cope however you need to. You think of _you_ ," I tell her.

I let out a long breath.

"I'm sorry," I say, smiling nervously. "I know I went on a-"

Interrupting my sentence, Sophia flies out of her chair and throws her arms around my shoulders. She tucks her face into my neck and my skin dampens instantly; my instinct is to wrap my arms around her and hug her back. So, I close my eyes and hold her, the girl who bears my child, and I don't let go.

…

In the car after the meeting, Jackson and I sit with the radio playing softly. The volume is low, but I still hear 'The Best You Had' by Nina Nesbitt.

I point to the speakers and smile at him, halfway. "Hey," I say. "It's our song."

He returns the subtle grin. "Oh, yeah," he says.

We're quiet for another moment, so many big decisions sitting between us. It's hard to know where to begin, or how.

"I felt a real connection with Sophia," I say, which is the truth.

I felt the innate urge to take care of her, to mother her, though she made it clear she didn't need a keeper. I got her phone number before we left, just in case she ever needs support. I have a feeling she will. Sometimes, being pregnant can make you feel like an island. I have no doubt her friends will pare away once they find out. It's simply how high school relationships work.

"I know you did," he says. "I did, too. She was a really nice girl."

"Special," I say.

He nods. I sigh.

"What are we gonna do?" I ask, spreading my fingers out over my knees.

He lets out the same sigh. Finally the words are out in the open.

"Before," he says. "You said you didn't think you could do it again."

"Yeah," I say.

He chews on his lower lip. He doesn't know what to say next, and I'm walking on the same eggshells. I don't want to say the wrong thing and start a fight. Because if we fight about anything, it's the concept of bringing a child into this world. I get defensive because I feel lesser, and he gets defensive because he feels helpless. We've gone through plenty of therapy to figure that out.

"But I remember Dr. Hollar talking about a stitch," I say, treading carefully.

"That woman," Jackson grumbles.

I reach over and touch his thigh. He softens when I do.

"I'm not saying we'd go back to her," I say. "But after Rosie, she told us there was a stitch that would help my cervix. It's called a cerclage, I Googled it."

"You Googled it?"

I nod, admitting it.

"And you'd be open to doing that?"

I puff my cheeks out, exhaling long and slow. "I've wanted to be pregnant for so long," I say. "I thought I was ready to give up, I really did. But, I don't know now. That little shimmer of hope is really hard to ignore. And we might end up getting hurt again. Worse than ever. But it just seems like it's worth a try. What's the other option? Aborting it? You know I can't do that." I pause. "This baby deserves a chance, at least. And I think we deserve that chance, too."

He stares at the steering wheel before drifting to my face, where his eyes settle. "What about the adoption, then?"

I run my nails over the pads of my fingers. "Is it selfish to want both?" I say. "Do people do that? Will they even let us?"

My phone feels heavier with the addition of Sophia's number. If we pulled out now, we'd put her back at square one. Abusing her trust, after all she's been through.

"I don't know," he says. "But if they did, would you want to?"

"Would _you_?" I ask.

He opens his mouth, but waits to speak. He blinks a few times and says, "Raise twins, essentially."

"Basically."

He shrugs one shoulder. "I mean, people do it all the time."

"Yeah, they do," I say.

"And we could," he says.

What I say next comes out as a whisper. I'm too nervous to say it louder. "I want to," I say.

A smile grows on his face. "Me, too," he says.

…

Surprisingly, Janice clears us to continue with the adoption because Sophia is open to it. I spoke to her on the phone after Jackson talked it over with Janice, and she said she would love for the baby to be raised with a sibling. She said she hated being an only child, and hoped differently for the baby.

I've noticed she never calls it her baby. She always says 'the baby,' generally. I can't say I blame her for not wanting to take ownership of something she'll eventually hand off. But still, it catches me off-guard every now and then.

Jackson and I get in touch with a new doctor who has been in the field for over twenty years. Her name is Dr. Cooke, and she assures us that she will make sure this pregnancy goes as it should. Looking into her eyes is comforting, like she's holding my hand without touching me. I feel safe with her, like I can trust her and she'll do everything she can to make sure my baby and I have as little complications as possible.

I spend the first 14 weeks of my pregnancy worrying. It's impossible not to. I go on leave from teaching so I don't have to move as much, though I know it's not necessary. I know I'm able to move, but I don't want to do anything that will put this pregnancy in jeopardy. This is the one that has to work, the one that _will_ work. I'm doing everything in my power to make it so.

When the stitch is put in, I finally let out a sigh of relief. I feel secure and stable with a reinforcement in my body to make sure everything stays together. No baby will fall out of my weakened cervix. It'll stay in there all the way to term, and I'll finally be able to see a pregnancy through.

Jackson and I are happier than ever. At 20 weeks, we're headed to the hospital for an appointment where we'll find out whether we'll be having a boy or girl. Sophia already knows the sex of the baby she's carrying, but she's keeping it a surprise until we find out about the one inside me.

It's strange, but they already feel like twins. Sophia and I spend a lot of time together, and we've become friends of sorts. It's refreshing, hearing her take on things I would normally never think about. Through an unexpected vessel, I've been given a new insight on the world.

"Alright, you guys," Dr. Cooke says. "You wanna know what you're having, right?"

I smile and laugh slightly, grasping Jackson's hand as she roves the sensor around my protruding belly. Just like Rosie, this baby wakes me up every morning with kicks that are surprisingly strong. Jackson says it's going to be a little soccer player.

"Yeah, we do," Jackson says, squeezing my fingers.

Dr. Cooke moves the sensor a bit further. "Well, it looks like… your little girl is sucking her thumb right now."

I gasp and look to my husband with wide eyes. "A girl," I breathe.

He leans forward and presses a deft kiss to my forehead, and I lean into his touch with closed eyes. "A little girl," he echoes.

"You're gonna have a daughter," Dr. Cooke says. "Congratulations. She's growing perfectly, and her heart rate is strong. You should be very proud."

"We are," I say, eyes glistening with tears.

After the ultrasound is over, she moves onto the physical exam. The stitch is still nicely placed, not weakening at all, holding just like it should. I leave the appointment feeling great, and the baby does, too. She's spinning and twirling like she heard and understood every word of what happened in there.

"I have to call Sophia," I say.

The two of us are due for prenatal yoga today, so Jackson drops me off at the studio that Sophia is already waiting outside of. Her belly is about the same size as mine, as she's only two weeks ahead.

"See you later, little mama," Jackson says, dropping a kiss on my temple.

"I'll text you when I need to be picked up," I say.

He nods, and I get out of the car. I wave to my friend and she smiles back, standing up straight from where she'd been leaning against the building.

"Hey, April," she says. "Did you just come from your appointment?"

"Yes!" I say, excitedly, swinging my yoga mat over my shoulder. "We found out we're having a girl."

Sophia beams. "Well, then you're having two girls," she says. "Congratulations."

I cover my mouth with my hands. "Oh, my god!" I squeal, then throw my arms around her. "Thank you."

She laughs. "Why are you thanking me?"

I pull away and wipe my eyes as we head into the building. "I'm never gonna stop thanking you," I say.

So far, she's denied the opportunity to be in her baby's life. I've advocated for an open adoption because I want to stay her friend, but she doesn't want to know her child, and she doesn't want her child to know her. I think it's because she thinks they'll think she's a disappointment, or they'll be ashamed of her, neither of which are true. I've already told her that we'll sing her praises every day, and always let the baby know where they came from.

But still, she holds fast to her decision. After the baby is born, she'll essentially disappear. When I think about that, I miss my friend as she still stands in front of me. She's dead-set on the idea, though, claiming she'll have the baby and go to college to follow her original plan. She won't look back.

"Do you have any names picked out?" she asks, as we fan our mats out on the shiny hardwood floor.

"We do, yeah," I say, straightening the corners. "We had a boy and girl name chosen. So, now that we found out, we already know what we'll call her."

Sophia raises her eyebrows, expectant.

"Stella," I say, overjoyed to be saying the baby's name aloud and knowing it's hers. "Stella Rosemary."

"That's so cute," Sophia says. "Rosemary for…"

"Her sister," I say, with a nod.

"How about names for this baby?" she asks, hands on her belly.

"We've thought about those, too," I say. "But we wanted your input before we chose anything."

She shakes her head. "No," she says. "You guys, no. It's not my baby. It's your baby. I don't need to have a say."

"We want you to," I insist. "More than anything. Just on her name. Nothing else. I won't ask anything else of you."

She gives me a look that's very fitting of her age.

"Just pick between two options," I say. "That's all I'm asking."

"Okay," she says, quietly.

"Harper, or Madelyn?" I ask.

She sits on it for only a moment. "Harper," she answers.

"Perfect," I say. "Then her name will be Harper Sophia."

…

I let myself feel excited for Stella's arrival. For some reason, I barely spend any time obsessing or worrying. I feel at ease, comfortable, and I live in the moment.

I relish each of her kicks. I celebrate each new craving, although Jackson has some complaints when I get up in the middle of the night and eat pickles. As I gain weight, I don't complain. I enjoy putting on extra padding for her.

I get rounder by the day, or so it seems. In September, when I'm 7 months along, I walk around the house in running shorts and a sports bra. I sweat through any other fabric, so it's not worth wearing.

"How you doing in there, sweet girl?" I ask Stella, who's rolling. I look down and see a foot pressed against my belly, so I push back against it. She's strong, so she pushes against my hand again. "Hi, baby. It's Mama."

While I wait for Jackson to come home, I eat frosting out of the container with my finger and pop in a couple dark chocolates after. My first cravings were salty, but now they're sweet. There are treats hidden in almost every corner of this house. For emergencies, of course.

Another thing that's picked up since my pregnancy has furthered is my sex drive. When the front door comes open, I power walk to meet my husband as he comes in and place my hands on his chest as he takes off his bag.

"Jackson," I say, swallowing a bit of chocolate. "I need you."

He looks at me with a funny expression on his face. "Can I take my shoes off first?" he asks, playfully.

"If you go fast," I say.

He runs a hand in circles over my stomach, smiling at me. "Are you about to explode?"

"Worse," I say. "Jesus, I'm so horny! You don't know what it's like!"

"I lived through the years between 12 and 25," he says. "Believe me, I know. Just let me go change. Are we going upstairs, or…?"

"I'm ready now," I say, finding my way to the couch.

"I'll be right back down."

I strip naked and wait for him, my whole body buzzing. When this urge comes on, it's impossible to stop or slow down. We don't have much sex anymore because I get a little paranoid about the stitch, but we do plenty of other things.

When he comes downstairs, my hand is already between my legs. Not doing a lot, just keeping myself warm.

"It was that bad?" he asks, sitting next to me.

I take my hand out. "You were taking a long time," I say.

"Well, I'm here now," he says. "And I'm gonna give my wife an orgasm. So, come here."

He lays me down and bends one knee against the back of the couch, pushing the other leg off so my foot is flat on the floor. I reach past my bulging belly and hold onto his head while he eats me out, every muscle relaxing while he gives me what I need.

"Oh, that feels so good," I say, moving my hands away from his head so I can grab my breasts tightly. They're more sensitive than ever. "Oh, god, baby. Keep going."

The sounds his mouth makes against me are wet and dirty, and they only turn me on further. I work my hips against his face and he does his best to hold me down, but I'm too powerful. When I come, I'm a mess of twitching muscles and spasms, and I can barely catch my breath.

"Your face is so red," Jackson says, sitting up on his knees to look at me.

"Leave me alone," I breathe. "Stella's on my lungs, I swear."

He leans forward and kisses my belly all over, humming against the skin. "Hi, little star," he says, using a nickname we've already coined.

Her half of the nursery is decorated with wallpaper with subtle stars on it, and a star mobile hangs above her crib. On the other side, Harper's is decorated with an ocean motif, per Sophia's inadvertent request. She told me once that she always pictures herself at the ocean when she wants to feel calm. I haven't told her how we decorated the baby's room, because that's information she doesn't want to know. But it's a comfort to me, knowing Harper will have that subtle connection with her birth mom.

"What are you doing in there?" Jackson asks the baby.

"Making Mama have to pee," I say, giggling. I run my hands through Jackson's hair and he gazes up at me with love in his eyes.

"I like hearing you say that," he says.

"What?"

He smiles. "Mama. It fits you."

I give him a sweet look with a smile. I don't know what to say in response. He already knows how I feel.

"You've been waiting long enough," he says, still skimming his hands over my belly. Stella twirls for him, already so in love with her daddy.

"We both have," I say, then trace a line on his forehead. "You're gonna be such a good father."

He plants a firm kiss in the middle of my stomach. Stella presses back against him, like always.

"And now, we get two," he says.

"Two babies," I sigh, blinking at the ceiling.

We have double everything. Two cribs, two changing tables, two dressers already full of clothes from the baby shower. Everyone close to me knows the situation, but Sophia declined the invitation to come. She said she didn't want to feel like the celebration was for her, and that my family and friends were too nice to not make it seem like that. I understood her decision, but wished her there all the same.

We have two infant car seats and a double stroller. The jogger was donated to Goodwill not long after we lost Rosie, but going to pick up a new one was a joyful experience. The same salesgirl helped us out, and this time I wasn't guilty bringing home the items.

We have a countless number of pacifiers and diapers. So many baby toys and bottles, but just one breast pump. We have two specially monogrammed blankets and two framed photos of the girls' sonograms hung next to their cribs.

And between Jackson and I, we have two beating hearts ready to love these babies as soon as they come into our world.

…

When I'm 36 weeks pregnant on October 1st, I go into labor. Dr. Cooke said that it might happen, so the stitch came out a few days ago. A 36-week delivery is nothing to be worried about, she said.

So, as we gather our things, including the hospital duffel bag that's been packed for days, I'm not the one freaking out. Jackson is doing enough of that for the both of us.

"Do you have the bag?" he calls.

I look down at it, slumped on the floor. "Right here, next to me," I say. "You gotta carry it, though. It's too heavy."

"Yeah, I'll get it," he pants. "Water? Do you need water? Are you hungry? Will they have food?"

I can't help but laugh. "Jackson, they'll have food," I say.

"But food you like?"

"I'll be fine."

"How are your contractions?" he asks, still flying around the kitchen trying to gather who-knows-what.

"Still five minutes," I say. "I don't really wanna have one standing up, so could you hurry?"

"I'm coming," he says, rushing to the door with an array of snacks in his hands. "I didn't know. I know you get picky. So, I just thought-"

"Did you clean up the stain on the floor?" I ask, waddling out the door.

My water broke near the dishwasher, as I was unloading it.

"Yeah," he says, dumping the food into the hospital bag and winding an arm around the small of my back. "Careful, careful," he says. "I got you. Go slow."

"I'm going as slow as I can," I say, smiling at him. "Baby, they're just stairs."

"Stairs you could easily fall down," he quips, and I shake my head.

He helps me into the car and even buckles my seatbelt for me.

"Okay, we got this. We're going. Do we have everything? Did you get shoes?"

"I'm wearing shoes, babe."

"Okay," he says, then sets his hands on the wheel. "I'm going. We're driving. We're going to the hospital."

I close my eyes and do some deep breathing on the way there. As we're about halfway, my phone starts to ring from my purse, and I reach to get it.

"Hello?" I say, head leaned back.

"April, hi, it's Janice," she says. "I'm calling to let you know that Sophia's in labor."


	22. Chapter 22

**_Just the epilogue left after this!_**

…

 **JACKSON**

April is a high-energy person in general. She gets neurotic over small things, like organizing Tupperware. She loses her shit when I forget to use a coaster, which leaves a water ring on the coffee table. She flies off the handle when she loses her planner. So, it's beyond me how she's staying so calm right now.

By default, I'm the cool and collected one between us. We're late for something? I send the apologetic, excuse-filled text. She stains her dress at a party? I talk her off the ledge and dig out the Tide-To-Go.

But right now, as she lies on the bed while a contraction ripples through her, her biggest reaction is sweating. She's doing a lot of that. But she's not screaming, not crying, not clenching my hand to the point of pain.

She's lying flat with her knees bent, breathing through her mouth with her eyes closed. She has my hand, but she's gripping with a normal amount of strength.

"Baby, you okay?" I ask, swiping some damp hair off her forehead.

She opens her eyes for a moment. "I'm good," she breathes, wincing as another one comes. "Just gotta get through this."

"Right, gotta get through it," I say, stroking her skin before lifting her hand to kiss the knuckles. "You're so strong, baby."

"Thank you," she says, and grits her teeth through the pain.

The nurse stands at her side, checking vitals.

"Is everything good?" I ask, addressing her. "Is she fine? Normal?"

"She's doing great," the nurse says, tapping on a tablet. "She's doing a wonderful job. You're dilated about 7 centimeters, April. You'll only have to wait for a bit longer."

"Seven…" My eyes widen as I picture how big that is, and I know she has to get to ten. "Seven."

"Jackson," April mutters, catching my eye.

"You're doing great," I say, snapping out of it. "Can I help with anything? What can I do?"

"I wanna walk," she says.

"No way," I say.

"Just around the room," she says. "Dr. Cooke said it would help speed things along. Can you help me up?"

"April, is this a good idea?" I ask, as I tentatively hold her shoulders while she slowly moves her legs to the side. She sets her feet on the floor and lifts her weight, walking unsteadily. I keep my arms wrapped around her the whole time.

"I'm fine," she says. "I just need a break from lying down."

"Lying down is usually pretty normal for…" I say.

"The baby won't fall out onto the floor, honey," she says. "Trust me. I just need to walk."

I hover while she walks around, watching her every move. When she gets tired, she sits on the edge of the bed with her knees wide, elbows resting on them.

"How are you?" I ask.

"Jackson," she says, smiling good-naturedly. "I'm fine. I promise."

I sigh and let my shoulders deflate, head dropping forward while I sit. In a moment, her hand appears on my arm where she rubs in slow circles.

"Everything is going how we planned," she says. "Stop worrying."

" _You_ telling _me_ to stop worrying?" I ask. "This can't be real."

There's a short pause where I lift my head and look at her. Even through her damp hair, drained face and swollen ankles, she's never been more beautiful.

"It's just scary," I say, much quieter. "I can't lose you. I don't know what I'd do if that happened."

"Baby…" she says, reaching over to caress my face. "You're not gonna lose me. I promise. I'm right here, and I'm staying. And by the end of today, we're gonna have two babies."

I smile as best I can. "It's gonna be scary as hell," I say.

She laughs.

"But awesome," I continue.

She laughs again, watching me as I sit next to her on the bed.

"I gotta be honest," I say. "I'm really damn scared."

She takes my hand, fingers gripping mine around the top. "So am I," she whispers.

"You're supposed to be comforting me right now," I whisper back, playfully.

We both laugh, and she rests her forehead against my shoulder. "Everything will work out," she says. "Once we have them in our arms, we'll get it."

"I hope so."

She lays back down and has another round of contractions, and I sit with her through them. After they pass, she looks at me and squeezes my wrist.

"I need you to go check on Sophia," she says.

I look at her funny. The last thing I want to do is leave her. I'm supposed to be at her side the whole time, that's the one job, as the husband, I have during the birth process. I can't do much else.

"Baby-"

"She's scared, and she's probably alone," April says. "Please. She's having our daughter, too."

I know she's right. I do need to go. But still, that means being apart from her, even just for a little while.

"Are you gonna be okay here on your own?" I ask.

She smiles. "Her room is just down the hall," she says. "I'll have someone come get you if I need anything."

I nod and look to the nurse on my way out the door. "That's the love of my life," I say quietly, gesturing towards April. "So, for the love of god, please take care of her while I'm gone."

…

For some reason, I'm nervous as I approach Sophia's room. She and I haven't spent much alone time together, or any at all, for that matter. I don't really know her, other than what April has told me. Through the stories, she seems like a cool, genuine person. But that's when she's with April. People's best traits always come out around April.

I hover outside before going in, noticing that no one is in there with her. There's a nurse, of course, but no family. I knock on the doorframe, bracing myself, and she looks up immediately.

"Jackson?" she says, confused.

"Hey," I say. "Is it alright if I come in?"

"Uh, sure," she says, sitting up a bit.

"No, no, stay," I say, motioning for her to lie down again. "You're fine. Don't change for me."

She laughs, a bit nervous, a bit relieved, and gets comfortable. I notice the chairs by the bed, but I don't sit down. That feels too intimate. Standing feels too awkward, though, so I do a weird half-lean against the nearest wall.

"So, how are things coming along?" I ask.

"Good," she says.

Her face, usually pale and wan, is flushed and bloated. Her eyes flit around the room, unable to land anywhere for a substantial amount of time. I don't even know this girl and it's easy to sense she's scared out of her mind.

"How are your contractions?"

She shrugs. "Painful," she says.

"How far apart are they?"

She looks at me like I'm crazy. "I don't know," she says.

There's a strained pause, and I let my eyes roam around the room.

"Did April send you in here?" she asks, breaking the silence.

I look down at her, prepared to come up with an excuse, but realize I have nothing. I break into a smile and nod, caught. "Yeah," I say.

Sophia laughs, too. I sit down, finally.

"I know she's worried about me," she mumbles. "But it's fine. I knew no one would be here."

"Well, I'm here," I say.

She shoots me a look. "You know what I mean."

I nod slowly, hands folded together in front of me. I can't help but think about April a couple rooms down, and how she's doing. But still, I stay. Because I know that's what she wants me to do.

"I didn't want anyone to come with me," she says, bringing it back up. "My mom offered, but I said no."

"Why?" I ask.

She shrugs and looks at her fingernails. They're painted hot pink, and chipping.

"The baby's gonna be here, then gone. Which is what I want. Obviously. So, why would I have her come for that? She's just gonna feel bad seeing me in pain. I don't need her sympathy. She's never given it to me before. Why start now?"

I move my lips to one side and try to wrap my head around what she's saying.

"Still, it's gotta be scary," I say.

She shrugs again. "I won't feel it," she says. "I'm getting an epidural when it's time. I was born fast, so this baby will probably come out fast, too. Then, you can take her."

I scrunch my eyebrows. "You can spend a little time with her, you know."

She looks away, sighing. "That'd be stupid," she says.

While she keeps her eyes out the window, I look at her face. She's so young, so inexperienced, and I know for a fact that she's putting up a front. It's practically transparent. But it's not my job to call her out, so I do what I came in here to do. I support her.

"Well, whatever you wanna do," I say. "It's your decision, ultimately."

"Yeah, I know."

We're quiet for a while. So long, I debate getting up and returning to my wife. It starts to rain, pattering softly against the windowpane, and Sophia watches it. Her head stays turned for a while, and I stare at my shoes.

Since I'm not looking, I'm surprised when she speaks.

"I looked up some of her stuff, you know," she says. "April."

I lean back in the chair and look at her curiously. "Oh, yeah?"

She nods. "Yeah." She looks over at me, like this is a secret she's been hiding. "She's good."

I chuckle, mostly to myself. "I know," I say, nodding.

"I saw _August Osage County_ ," she says. "Um, and _Rabbit Hole_. _Rabbit Hole_ was so, so good. Like, amazing. I couldn't believe she did that one, you know, because of your guys'..."

"Yeah," I say, swallowing. "It was a big decision for her."

"It worked out, though."

"It did," I say.

"I saw _Romeo and Juliet_ , too," she continues. "And _White Christmas_."

I look up, amused. " _White Christmas_?" I ask, eyebrows raised. "Seriously?"

She nods.

"I can't believe you found footage of that," I say. "It was so long ago."

"She looked so young," Sophia says. "She sounded different, too."

"That was her very first show," I say. "I… damn. Wow. I can't believe… that's crazy."

"Did you ever see it?" she asks.

I can't help but smile. "Yeah. I saw it live," I say. "I was there. We met just before she got cast in that show. Uh… we became official during that show."

A small smirk finds its way to her face now. "Don't get all old and nostalgic on me," she says.

I scoff. "I'm not old," I say.

"If you weren't a kid ten years ago, you're old," she says.

"You're ruder than I thought," I say, laughing.

"You know, I already feel like I know you," she says, leaning back on the pillow. "April talks about you like, all the time."

I snort. "Like how?"

"Well, first off, I know you're really shitty at folding clothes. Dude, you gotta learn. She knows you're trying, so she doesn't say anything. Because she's nice like that. But seriously? You can't even fold socks right?"

I open my mouth, fake-offended.

"She told me about your job, too," she says. "A lawyer, which is cool. And she's an actress, so you guys obviously have money. For babies, that's good."

I frown a bit. "Well, babies need more than money," I say.

She makes a face. "It doesn't hurt, though."

I can't say she's wrong.

"Let me ask you something," I say, resting my chin on my fist. "Why did you pick us? Was it just because of the money?"

Her lips part and she inhales softly, eyes centered on mine. "No," she says. "Well, a little. But only in the beginning."

"What changed?" I ask.

She takes another deep breath. "This is gonna sound weird, I don't know. I don't wanna say it."

I lean away from her, try to seem less interested. I don't want to scare her off, because I really want to know.

"It's okay, you can tell me," I say.

"I just… I saw the way you guys looked at each other," she says. "In a couple of the pictures, and then in real life. And I knew, like, right then. I wanted you guys to have the baby, and be her parents. Because you didn't even need to say out loud that you loved each other. It was just so… obvious." She sighs. "I don't think my parents have ever said 'I love you' or even hugged around me. I wanted her… I wanted Harper to have something different. I wanted her with you."

I smile to myself as warmth opens in my chest. "It really means a lot to us," I say.

"You tell me that, like, every time you see me," she says.

I chuckle. "I just want to make sure you know."

"I do," she says, picking at her nails.

"Mr. Avery," I hear from behind, and whip my head around. I make eye contact with a nurse and know before she says anything. "Your wife needs to start pushing soon."

I stand up and start towards the door, but then double back to Sophia. I take her hand that lies limply on the bed and squeeze it, eyes holding hers. We don't need to exchange words; she squeezes my hand back.

"Go, or April's gonna kill you!" she urges, and we both laugh as I sprint out the door and down the hallway.

When I get back to April's room, her feet are in stirrups and she's doing some deep breathing. Her eyes dart to me and she smiles, extending one arm and waving me over.

"Hi, baby," I say, getting close to her. "Hi, baby. How are you doing? What's happening? Does it hurt?"

"I'm fine," she says. "I'm just fine. Stella's gonna be here soon."

I kiss her damp temple, tasting her salty sweat. "Yes, she is," I say.

"How was Sophia?" April asks.

"Good," I say. "Interesting, at the very least."

"She in any pain?"

"Didn't seem like it," I say.

"Good," she says. "Is she scared?"

"I think so," I say. "No one's there with her."

April gives me a look, and I nod.

"I know," I say. "But we hung out for a while, and I think that made her happy."

"Okay," April says, then pushes her chin against her chest. "Oh, I really feel like I need to push," she tells the midwife.

Dr. Cooke comes in just as she speaks, scrubbed in with gloves on. "Alright, April. Let's check you out. You feel a lot of pressure, like you're ready to push?"

April nods, letting a stream of air out from her puckered lips.

"You're fully dilated down here, we're ready for baby. With the next contraction, I want you to give me a good, strong push."

We wait a few moments, then it happens. April doesn't scream, she isn't loud at all. She's completely silent, actually. She grits her teeth together, holds my hand, and pushes with all her might.

Dr. Cooke encourages her, says this is going to be one of the easiest births she's seen in a while. I can't explain the relief that floods through me hearing that.

"You can do this, baby," I say to April, lips pressed against her hairline. "She's almost here. You got this. You got it."

"One more hard push, April. Her head's out, we just need those shoulders!"

April inhales, expands her chest, and pinches her features together. In the next moment, wailing cries fill the room and Dr. Cooke holds Stella up, one hand supporting her head and the other under her bottom.

"A beautiful baby girl," she says. "Daddy, would you like to cut the cord?"

The next few moments are a blur. I separate the physical connection between my wife and child and watch as they quickly carry her to April, without even cleaning her, and set Stella on her mother's chest. Skin against skin, they touch on the outside world for the first time.

I start crying, I can't help it. April is holding our child. Our living, breathing, fussing child is in her arms, close to her heart, and they're both healthy.

April is openly weeping, holding the baby close while closing her eyes. All I can do is watch them; I don't make a move. This isn't my moment; it's theirs. The child that April has been fighting for for over a decade is here, in her arms, and she's beautiful.

She's absolutely beautiful.

When they take Stella to clean her up and get her vitals, I climb onto the bed with my wife. She's already passed the placenta and she's exhausted; I can feel it coming from her in waves.

Then, Stella is handed back to us in a soft pink blanket - the monogrammed one we brought from home. The nurse lowers her arms, and I stare at my child, both enamored and terrified.

"Does Daddy want a turn?" she asks.

I look to April, almost as if I'm asking for permission. Then, I nod and hold my daughter. My daughter, a miracle personified.

She's heavier than I thought she'd be. Substantial and strong. When I touch her, I feel like I've known her all my life, though we've only just met.

"She's so beautiful," I say, sniffling as I look down into Stella's face.

April leans her head against my shoulder and uses one arm to encircle the baby. "Look at her," she whispers. "She's so smart."

"So smart," I say, and trace her nonexistent eyebrows.

I think of everything that's culminated in our lives to put this tiny being in my arms. I think of all the strife we've been through, and the peace we've been granted in return.

"She's perfect," April says. "Jackson, she's so perfect."

I kiss Stella's forehead and she coos, opening her mouth and making baby sounds. I giggle softly and pull back, watching her dark, unfocused eyes open to slits.

"Hi, there," I say softly, smiling as her tiny fingers wrap around my thumb. "Hi, little star. I'm your daddy." She opens her mouth in a wide yawn, and April laughs. "That's your mama," I continue. "And we've been waiting for you."

...

A little under an hour later, a nurse comes to inform us that Harper has been born.

"She's doing great," the nurse says. "She came out at 7 pounds, 1 ounce, 20 inches long. Would you like to meet her?"

April and I exchange a look. She glances down at Stella, who's now in her arms, then looks back to me. I know we're thinking the same thing; there's no discussion needed.

"Not yet," April says, very softly. Stella is nearly asleep, and she doesn't want to wake her. "Is it alright if we rest for a while?"

Of course, we want to meet Harper. But what we hold higher than meeting our other daughter is letting her birth mother spend a few moments with her, moments she won't regret, moments she won't be able to get back.

"Of course," the nurse says. "Take all the time you need."

Someone comes in to teach April how to breastfeed, which takes a bit before she starts to get the hang of it. Stella is too sleepy to cooperate for long, so the nurse lays her down in a clear bassinet and tells April and me to get our rest, that she'll take care of anything the baby needs while we're asleep.

As we lay there, all we can do is watch her, though. With one arm wrapped around my wife, I turn to the side and keep my eyes on our baby as her eyes drift shut. She's already worked her way out of the swaddling blanket and has her arms on the outside, tossed above her head.

"She sleeps like you," April whispers, tracing my knuckles.

I kiss the top of her shoulder. "I love you," I say, then close my eyes while keeping my lips there. "I love you so much."

She presses back against me, making sure every inch of our bodies touch. We fall asleep, and I feel more content than ever before.

April wakes up first, but I'm not far behind. She's just stirring and opening her eyes when I open mine, and we both notice her right away. Next to Stella's bassinet right beside our bed, lies Harper in her own.

"Oh, oh, oh," April says, sitting up as best she can. "Look who's here. Jackson, Harper's here."

April rolls the bassinet closer, but has a hard time getting the baby out with the angle she's at. So, I stand and approach it, looking down into Harper's tiny face. She opens her eyes as I look at her, and they're big and blue. Just like Sophia's.

"Hi, honey," I say, then gently pick her up. Unlike Stella, who's still sound asleep, she stayed inside her swaddling blanket. The purple one we had specially made for her. "Hi, sweet girl."

I sit next to April and keep the baby close to my chest. April stares at her face, running a finger over her cheek, then looks back at me.

"What happened to Sophia?" she asks.

I shrug, then look back to the bassinet. "Look," I say. "There's a piece of paper. A note, or something."

April reaches and picks it up. "It's from her," she says, and reads it aloud. "Dear April and Jackson, thank you for everything you've done for me. And thank you for everything you will do for your daughter, Harper. I didn't think I wanted to, but I held her for a little while. I didn't want to nurse her, so she's probably hungry. I wanted you to be the only one to do that, April. I'm sorry if she cries. She's really cute. I liked that she had my eyes. But I liked the fact that she has a sister more. I wanted her to be with you guys, so I asked the nurse to drop her off. I was going to say goodbye, but you were sleeping. Stella is beautiful, by the way."

April's voice cracks as she reads on.

"If it's alright with you, I'd like to send Harper a letter for each of her birthdays. I don't know if I want to see her yet, or if I ever will. But letters are what I can do, and I'll try to always write them. I don't want her to think she wasn't enough for me. I just wanted more for her. And I know you two can give her everything. She's always been yours. I don't really know how to end this. So, goodbye. And thank you. Love, Sophia."

April folds the paper and looks at me with watery eyes.

"She's gone," she says.

I nod, knowing no words will fill this silence, so instead I hand her the baby. She takes her gracefully, tucking her small form into the crook of her elbow, and rocks her side to side.

"Hi, beautiful," she says. "I'm your mama. And someday we're gonna tell you all about who gave you to us. The most precious, perfect little gift."

Harper blinks up at April and opens her mouth, pushing her tiny pink tongue out. With a sigh, she closes it again and April grins at her.

"Let's try and get you to eat," she says, and fumbles in the way new mothers do with trying to hold the baby and situating her gown at the same time. I help her, steadying Harper, as she positions her breast for her to take hold.

Like a practiced pro, it doesn't take the baby long at all. But almost like she senses activity happening without her, Stella starts to fuss and cry from just feet away. Hearing the sound, a nurse rushes in.

"Everything okay?" she asks.

"Yeah," April says. "I just think they're hungry. I'm not sure how to feed both at the same time. Is that a thing? Can I do that?"

We get an expert in the room, who shows April how to hold the twins under her arms like two footballs. Two squishy, delicate footballs that can eat at the same time. Once they're situated, April lets out a long breath and rests them on the pillows the lactation expert put under them.

"Super-mom," I say. "And it's only your first day."

She leans her head back and stares into space for a moment before glancing down at the babies. "I think I miss Sophia," she says, nodding. "Do you think Harper will miss her?"

"I don't know," I say, stroking Stella's hair, who's closer to me. "Maybe not at first. Maybe not for a while. But I don't doubt she'll get curious eventually."

"I always want her to know about her birth mom," April tells me. "I don't want to keep any secrets. It's not like we can pretend she's not adopted."

I chuckle and look at the skin tone differences between my daughters. There's Stella, who has skin akin to mine, but a bit lighter. Golden brown to my sepia. She has black hair that's already winding into short, spiral curls. Inky eyelashes that touch her cheeks when her eyes close, and dark blue eyes.

Then, there's Harper. Her skin is fair as April's, if not more so. Veins are visible through the smattering of blonde on her head, eyelashes nearly invisible. Her shade of blue is more like the waves near the shore, while Stella's resembles the deep middle.

In almost every way, they're opposite. But in every single way, they're ours. And as far as we're concerned, they're twins.

…

We're allowed to go home a few days later, and this time both April and I are nervous. She sits in the back between the two infant car seats, the ones we'd fussed over, with an arm around each one.

"Careful of that pothole!" she hisses. "Baby. Stella's asleep."

I veer and miss it by a hair.

"Don't turn so sharp," she says. "I'm afraid of their little necks."

"I'm trying," I say, going fifteen under the speed limit. "The guy behind me is gonna murder me."

April throws a look over her shoulder, arms still around the babies. "If he comes any closer, I'm getting out and socking him in the face. We have infants in here, goddammit!"

"Babe, calm down," I say, a smile in my voice. But secretly, I don't want her to. I love it when that feisty side comes out.

"No!" she says, voice high but soft. "If he rides your ass any harder, he's gonna take my job."

I snort. She wasn't even trying to be funny.

"I'm turning, I'm getting off Ashland," I say. "Side streets. Side streets, babe."

"Thank god," she sighs, and I watch in the rearview mirror while she peers into each of the carriers. "How are my angels doing? How are my beautiful little angels?"

"They good?"

"They're very curious," she says. "They wanted me to tell you they think Daddy is a very good driver."

"They wanted _me_ to tell _you_ that Mama has road rage."

"They said nothing of the sort," she says, and we both laugh.

…

A couple days after we get settled at home, we invite people over to meet the babies. Mark and Lexie, who are now dating, make it over, along with Addison and my mother. April's family is due to come in a week or so, and I'm relieved they won't be here with everyone else. They're a handful on their own.

"Is everyone downstairs?" April asks, as she sits in the rocking chair in the nursery. The twins just got up from a nap, had their diapers changed, and are nursing before introductions begin.

"Yep," I say, sitting on the stool next to her.

"Did you make sure they washed their hands?"

"I did," I say.

"Good," she says.

The babies are almost two weeks old and still getting used to life. We haven't begun getting to know them as people yet, because they're still in a very transitional stage. The outside world is cold and scary compared to inside the womb. They cry a lot, and poop a lot. They eat all the time. What comforts them the most is April's voice. They love it when she sings.

'She Used to be Mine' from _Waitress_ , the play April passed up, is their favorite.

We put them in adorable outfits. For Sophia, a blush colored onesie with dark pink pants, and the opposite color scheme for Stella, along with tiny wraparound headbands. They're in good moods, blinking disorientedly in the way they do while we bring them down the stairs.

"Hey everyone," April says, voice soft. "I'd like you to meet the twins."

We walk closer. Stella sucks her thumb, and Harper sucks her two middle fingers.

"This is Stella," April says, nodding towards the baby in her arms. "And Jackson has Harper."

"Good lord in heaven," my mother says. "I've never seen anything so gorgeous."

I don't see a lot of my mother anymore. The last time we spent decent time together was during mine and April's wedding, and even then she made herself scarce. I think, over the years, she's pulled away from me because I became everything she never thought I would. And now, as I've surpassed her expectations, she doesn't feel proud so much as ashamed of herself.

"Our twins," I say, smiling as everyone stands to hover around us. April wasn't crazy about passing the babies around, and I see her keeping a tight hold on Stella, so I do the same with Harper. To be honest, passing our babies like hot potatoes doesn't appeal to me, either.

"They're an Oreo," Mark says, chuckling.

April shoots him a look. "What's the supposed to mean?" she snaps.

"Come on, it's funny," she says. "You know, like chocolate and vanilla."

April frowns further. "That's mean and inappropriate," she says. "And racially insensitive."

"Dude, shut up," I say, shaking my head. "Please, god, just shut up."

Lexie takes his arm and gives him a warning glare, and I thank god that she's around.

We sit on the couch while everyone gathers around, marveling at every small thing the twins do. Whether it's a yawn, eye contact, or fanning out their fingers, it's amazing. And of course, April and I think the same.

Everyone leaves except Addison, who stays a bit longer because she's the closest thing to family. April lets her hold Stella while she goes to the bathroom, and I sit next to both of them with Harper, now asleep, still in my arms.

Addison beams at the baby, who's drowsy and blinking slow. She lifts a hand and Stella latches onto her finger lazily, out of reflex.

But I say, "She likes you," anyway. Because she will. Addison is the girls' godmother. She's been one of April's biggest supporters throughout this whole endeavor.

She smiles when I say it, and I'm glad I did.

April comes back out, smiling and looking exhausted. She sits next to Addison and coos at our baby, leaning to press a kiss to her forehead.

Addie looks between the both of us, beaming, and finally says, "You guys did a good job."

…

After the twins get changed and eat later that night, both mobiles are on as they lie in their cribs. They had a long day full of new faces, so they're just as tired as we are.

"Wanna go to bed?" I ask April.

She sits down in the rocking chair, though. "Let's stay in here for a little longer," she whispers.

I know how she feels. I never want to leave the babies alone, or let them out of my sight. I don't think that'll change anytime soon.

I sit on the window seat and wave her over, and she comes. I pat my lap and she sits down while I wind my arms around her, pulling her close to my chest so she can rest her head on my shoulder.

I reach and trace the J necklace that still hangs around her collar. Not a day goes by where she doesn't wear it, not after all these years.

"We finally have it," she says, voice so soft I barely catch it.

I press a kiss to her hairline, letting my eyes wander the room. I pause on Rosie's sonogram in a pink frame hanging near the door, reminiscent of when the room was that color. It will always hang there, that memory of her won't go away. Just like the three stones in the garden will stay as reminders of what was lost, what never quite was.

"What?" I ask.

But we have what's in front of us. And if not for the bumps and winding turns along the way, this perfection might not have arrived. It was by no means conventional. But this life, by every standard, is all we've ever dreamed of.

April takes a deep breath before answering, settling deeper against me. After a moment passes, she finally says, "Everything."


	23. Epilogue

Thank you to everyone for sticking with me through When We Were Young! This one definitely had a mind of its own, and ended up in a place I honestly did not expect going into it. It was really fun and also challenging at times. It was a really great experience! Thank you for your consistent feedback, as usual. And like always, I'll be back before you know it. I have other non-fic things I'm working on, but I already have the idea for my next multichapter. See you soon!

 **APRIL**

"Hey, baby. Where are you?"

"At the bottom of the platform. Where are you?"

I walk down the stairs of the Fullerton station and see Jackson's back, smiling as I do. I hang up the phone and watch him look at his screen before trotting up and wrapping my arms around his waist.

"Jesus," he says, jumping. "You scared me."

"Got ya," I say.

"I thought I was about to get mugged," he says, then spins around and pushes my hair off my shoulder. "By a very tiny assailant."

"I'm not that tiny," I whisper, taking his hand as we start walking.

Today is October 1st, the twins' fifth birthday. So, we're on the way to pick them up from school and take them out for ice cream.

"How was rehearsal?" Jackson asks, nodding towards the light that changes so we can walk across the street.

Right now, I'm in a production of _Matilda_ , as Miss Honey. Rehearsals are almost over, and opening night is next week. We're doing tech right now, perfecting everything. It's been a nice balance, now that the twins are in school all day. While they were babies, I took time off and spent my days at home. My life was 100% devoted to taking care of them. But now, it's more balanced.

"Good," I say. "We worked out some kinks. Fixed some stuff. I'm glad they let me off early, though."

"Me, too," he says.

We get to the girls' school around 3:30, just as class lets out. When each of the twins' teachers see us, they give a nod and go back inside to collect our daughters. Within moments, the two of them come rushing out with their arms extended, wild smiles on their faces.

"Mama! Daddy!"

They crash into our arms - Harper in mine, Stella in Jackson's, and wrap their arms tight around our necks.

"Happy birthday, babies!" I say.

"We had a birthday treat for me in my class," Stella says. "And everyone sang 'happy birthday.' I got to blow out candles! But just pretend. They weren't on fire."

"I had a party in my class, too!" Harper sings, jumping up and down while holding my hand. "We had chocolate cupcakes!"

"Ew," Stella says. "We had vanilla."

Last night, Jackson and I stayed up late baking two batches - we know the girls' specific, opposite tastes by heart.

"We're gonna take you guys out for one more treat today," Jackson says. "How does Sweet Mandy B's sound?"

The girls jump and cheer, letting go of our hands to race ahead along the fence, giving Jackson and me a chance to link hands again.

When we get to the bakery, the girls each get a bowl of ice cream and between the two of us, Jackson and I share a small box of chocolates.

I pick one up, and he takes it from me.

"You won't like that," he says. "It has marzipan. Here, have this. It's dark."

He pops it into my mouth and I smile, nodding my approval.

"Daddy, don't feed Mama," Stella says. "She's not a baby."

Jackson gives his daughter a silly look. "I can feed her if I want to," he says. "She's my wife, not yours."

"Yeah, but she's my mommy," Stella argues, playfully.

"Alright, little lawyer," Jackson says. "Beat this. I've known her the longest."

"I was inside her belly!" Stella insists, and leans forward to press the tip of her nose against her father's.

"Alright, you two," I say, rolling my eyes lightly.

"Are we celebrating a birthday over here?" an older woman says, and I look up to see her coming closer, wearing a pink apron and carrying a wrapped cookie.

"Two!" Harper says, sitting up on her knees.

"Oh, two birthdays?" the woman says.

"Yeah," Harper says. "It's both our birthday 'cause we're twins."

Stella wraps an arm around her sister's shoulders. There's a noticeable size difference - Stella is taller and stronger, with more muscle. Harper is a few inches shorter, more bony than muscular. Stella's eyes turned green like her father's, while Harper's stayed blue like her birth mother. The most obvious difference is their skin color, though that's not something that crosses our mind unless it involves sunscreen or lotion.

It's a stereotypical view to think that Stella's hair would be more difficult, but it's not. Her curls are soft, manageable, and cooperative. Harper's hair tangles with a stray gust of wind, and she'll scream like she's being murdered when I try and get a brush through it.

"Twins?" the woman says. "That's very cute. When I was little, I had a best friend who I called my 'twin,' too."

Harper's forehead crinkles in the way Jackson's does when he's frustrated. "No," she says, defiantly. "She's my sister."

"I'm just 47 minutes older," Stella says smartly.

A strange look flashes across the woman's eyes. "It's adorable," she says, looking to us. "That they think they're sisters."

Now, my face flames. Before that comment, I cut her a generous amount of slack. I was going to let the girls explain themselves. But now, I can't hold back.

"They are sisters," I say, standing. Jackson touches my hand, but I subtly flick his fingers away. "They're twins. Born 47 minutes apart, on the same day."

She's confused now. "That might be true, but the blonde one-"

"Is younger," I say, jaw clenched. "By 47 minutes. Thank you for the cookie." I take it from her and hand it to Harper, and she breaks it in half to share with her twin. I sit back down, my eyes stay on the woman. "We worked hard for our family. I'd appreciate if you'd stop passing judgements when you have no idea who we are."

As she walks away, Stella can't tear her eyes away from her and Harper is staring at me. Jackson is suddenly very concentrated on the assortment of chocolates in front of him.

"Mama got mad," Harper whispers.

"'Cause that lady said we aren't sisters," Stella says, flipping around to meet my eyes. "Right, mama? But she was wrong?"

"Of course she's wrong," Jackson says. I can hear the anger lacing his voice, too. But he's the type to stay quiet when he's upset, while I'm the opposite. "You two are twins. You know that. You should never let anyone make you think differently."

"It's 'cause I'm brown and Harper's pink," Stella says. "That's why the lady was saying that."

"Yes," I say.

"But it's 'cause I was 'dopted," Harper says. "Does that lady know?"

"No," I say. "And you shouldn't have to explain yourself. Okay, baby? You know you're just as much a part of this family as any of us. Adoption might not be biological, but it's legal. And you know how else you become related by something legal?"

Harper and Stella both chorus, "Getting married!" at the same time.

It's something I've told them again and again. Jackson and I wouldn't be 'related' if not for a legal document. There's no blood between us, but that doesn't mean anything. Just because there's no blood between Harper and the rest of us doesn't make her any lesser. And she knows this.

"Exactly," I say.

The girls keep eating, and Stella starts in on a story about something that happened to her at school. Harper stays quiet though, pushing her dessert around with a spoon.

"You okay, baby boots?" Jackson asks, reaching over and touching Harper's hair.

She shrugs and says, "Yeah."

Stella stops talking and looks over. "Sissy's sad," she says.

"I don't like that lady," Harper mutters, setting her spoon down. "I wanna go home."

Stella stands up, though she's not finished, and puffs out her chest. "We wanna go home," she announces.

Jackson and I agree, and we gather our things. Instead of going home, though, we stop at a park and enjoy the weather while it lasts, and Harper brightens up a bit.

"I have a letter for you," I tell her, moving a bit of hair out of her eyes. She's lying sideways with her head on my stomach, rising and falling as I breathe. "From your birth mom. Do you wanna hear it?"

She looks at me, blue eyes pensive. Jackson and Stella are off playing on the monkey bars, laughing loudly. It's just the two of us here in this quiet moment.

"Yeah," she says.

I start reading out loud.

"Dear Harper," I say. "Happy birthday. I can't believe you turned five! Time is flying by so fast. Your mommy sends me pictures of you sometimes. You are so beautiful, even more than I imagined."

I look at her to see if that got a smile, but she sits stone-faced.

"I've heard a lot about what you've done this past year. Learned how to read, and gotten brave on a two-wheeled bike. That's awesome. I'm really proud of you. I didn't learn how to ride a two-wheeler until I was 9, so you're way ahead of me."

She smiles a tiny bit at that.

"I went back to school this year to get what's called a master's degree. I guess I'm smarter than I thought. I think having you made me realize that, in some weird way. I don't really understand that, so I don't expect you to."

I pause, skimming over what little that's left.

"If you ever want me to stop sending letters, just tell your mama and I'll stop. I'll do whatever you're comfortable with. I want the best for you, Harper. And you're getting that with your parents. And remember, they chose you. They love you with their whole heart. I knew April. And she'd cross the ocean for you."

I smile at the last part, then look up to see Harper watching me.

"Is that the end?" she asks.

I nod. "Did you like it?"

She sighs, then turns towards me. "I don't know. I like you better, mommy. I only want you as my mommy." She crawls up and wraps her arms around me, burying her face in my neck.

"Do you not want Sophia to send you letters anymore?" I ask.

She doesn't respond. She's barely five, she doesn't know. I don't blame her for being overwhelmed. She's experienced a lot of feelings for one day.

"We can figure it out later, sweetheart," I say, stroking her back.

She turns over and lies in the crook of my arm, staring up at the sky in the same way I am. She raises her hand and blocks out the sun, and I copy her movements.

"Look, mommy," she says, lining her arm up with mine. "We have the same freckles."

"We do, don't we," I say, examining along with her.

"How come I have your same skin, but you're not my birth mommy?" she asks.

We lower our arms and I pull her closer to my side. "You weren't in my tummy with Stella," I say. "But you know what? I found out about you on the same day. Sophia picked me and your daddy to be your parents. We got picked, how exciting is that? And you and Stella grew side-by-side, because I spent a lot of time with your birth mom. I talked to you while you were in her belly, so you heard my voice all the time. And you were born just down the hall. You heard Daddy's voice right before you came into the world. And when you opened your eyes and looked at us, the world stopped," I say.

"What if you didn't pick me, though?" she asks, worried.

"That would never happen," I say. "If I could go back, I'd do it a million times over. I'd pick you again and again and again, baby boots."

"Sissy!" Stella shouts, interrupting our moment as she races towards us. "Come on! Daddy's gonna catch a butterfly!"

With a giggle, Harper pushes away from me and runs off, following in the footsteps of her twin, who's 47 minutes older.

…

That night after we put the twins to bed, Jackson is brushing his teeth and singing as he goes.

"Jamie is over, and Jamie is gone…"

I narrow my eyes and smack his butt. "Don't," I say.

"What?" he says.

"That was two shows ago," I joke. "Get new content."

He smiles around his toothbrush and spits into the sink. "Excuse you, Cathy in _The Last Five Years_ is one of my favorites you've done."

"Shut up," I say. "You hated that show."

"I really did," he says. "So much singing. You guys do know you can talk, right?"

I laugh, throwing my head back. "When are you gonna let this go?" I ask.

He winds an arm around my waist and meets my eyes in the mirror as I brush my hair. "Never," he says. "Jamie's decided it's time to move on…"

"Stop singing!" I giggle, and pretend to hit him with the hairbrush.

He hurries out of the room though, and I meet him in bed once I'm done with my routine. He's sitting up, glasses halfway down his nose, on his phone.

"Enough with your emails," I say, crawling in next to him. I reach and take his phone, then turn the screen black. "They can wait. Your hours are up for the day."

He smiles and lays down, welcoming me to his side. I rest a hand on his chest and loop my fingers in half-hearted circles, thinking more about what's in my head than how my hands are moving.

"Did Harper seem a little off to you today?" Jackson asks, voicing my thoughts exactly.

I nod instantly. "She was all in her head," I say.

"Wonder who she gets that from," he murmurs lightly.

I prop myself up on an elbow. "I don't think she wants to hear from Sophia anymore," I say. "You know how we read that letters can help kids feel connected to their birth parents?"

He nods.

"Well, I don't think she wants to feel connected to Sophia. I think she wants to be close to us, and that's it."

His eyebrows furrow. "Does she not feel close to us right now?"

"No, no, I don't think that's it," I say. "I think she's afraid that one day, we'll give her back or something."

He's genuinely troubled by this, I can tell by how his expression changes. I am, too. It's not something Harper has told me outright, but I can't stop analyzing her actions from earlier. She was upset by the woman in Sweet Mandy B's, and confused by the letter from Sophia.

"I just don't think she wants to acknowledge that she's different," I say. "I think sometimes, she feels out of place."

"Did she say that?"

I shake my head. "No," I say. "But she didn't like Sophia's letter."

"Was it bad?"

"Not at all," I say. "It's in my purse. You can read it tomorrow. It was fine, it was nice."

He sighs. "Do you think she feels distant from Stella? You know, because strangers are always separating them."

The woman in Sweet Mandy B's wasn't the first, and she won't be the last.

"I don't know," I say. "I hope not. I don't know."

We sit in silence for a while, both of us stewing, neither coming to any conclusions.

"We should go check on them," he says. "I just wanna…"

"Yeah," I agree.

We tiptoe down the hall to the girls' room, where the nightlight is still on. It casts enough light to see clearly, to notice that Stella's bed is empty and Harper's is doubly as full.

I soften as I see the two of them together, Stella's arm thrown over her sister's waist, her face buried in tangled blonde hair. They're breathing at the exact same rate. Stella is sucking her thumb, Harper on her two middle fingers. In this moment, they are so reminiscent of their infant selves that I can barely handle it.

Jackson takes my hand. Through the darkness, he whispers, "We're gonna be okay."

…

On the opening night of my show, I'm sitting in my dressing room looking at my reflection in the vanity mirror. I've been looking in these for years, but the same face never looks back. I've changed so much with each show I've been in. So much so, that sometimes it's hard to remember where I began.

When I started in _White Christmas_ , there were no pictures in the mirror. I avoided looking at myself and let the hair and makeup team do all the work. But as time passed, that changed.

During _Sense and Sensibility_ , there were pictures of Jackson and me lining the frame. Ones from the beach, selfies from home, photos of him alone that he never knew I took. Back then, our relationship was the center of my world. I revolved around it, until I lost him.

Then, for a long time, the mirror stayed empty. I didn't fill it with selfies of myself and Andrew, or any pictures at all. I kept my home life at home and my work life at work. But now, once again, they're integrated.

As I gaze forward now, I see a picture of Harper and Stella as 11-month-olds, both standing on wobbly legs. Both had taken their first steps that day with Jackson behind them, stomping the ground before tumbling into my arms and laughing along with our cheers.

Above that is a wedding photo, a candid. It's somewhat blurry, but one I've always loved. It's a shot that Addison took of Jackson and me during our first dance, my head on his chest, his arms resting low on the small of my back like he doesn't want me any further than I was in that moment. When I look at it, I can practically hear 'The Luckiest' by Ben Folds playing.

Then, there's the girls on the first day of school. Arms wrapped around each other, they were three years old and headed to preschool. Harper had been scared out of her mind, and that fear is visible in her eyes. But Stella was steadfast, holding strong to her sister's hand even after we left the classroom. Jackson and I cried that day, too, but only after we were out of their sight.

The most recent photo was professionally taken. The four of us are standing in front of a wall decorated with a sparkling mosaic, smiling for the camera. Stella is on my hip while Harper is on Jackson's, and the girls are laughing about something I can't remember. Jackson isn't looking at the lens, either, he has his eyes on me. Which makes me think I must have been the one to say something funny.

Interrupting my nostalgia, there's a knock on the door.

"Who is it?"

"Us!"

The door comes open with Stella leading the way, Jackson bringing up the rear with Harper. He's holding something behind his back, and so are the girls.

"Hey, guys!" I say, excitedly. "I didn't know you were here already."

"We came to surprise you!" Harper says, her little voice high and sweet.

"We got presents for you, mommy," Stella says. "But we can't show you 'til after you're done."

I laugh a bit and nod, watching Jackson covertly take what's behind their backs and put it where I can't see.

"Are you gonna be on that big stage?" Harper asks, crawling onto my lap.

Stella soon joins her, and they fit perfectly sitting on either leg. I'm only dressed in tights and a cardigan, but they're used to it.

"I sure am," I say.

"Mommy's famous," Stella says, which makes Harper giggle for some reason.

"Are you guys excited to see the show?" I ask, and they both nod.

"You nervous, baby?" Jackson asks.

I shrug and shake my head. "Nah," I say. "Definitely not, now that I got a chance to see you guys."

He smiles and leans down to kiss my forehead. The girls watch him, then copy his movements, laughing while pressing their lips to my forehead, keeping their balance with a hand on either of my shoulders.

"April, are you in costume?" the stage manager calls, and I widen my eyes at my husband and daughters.

"I better get going," I whisper conspiratorially. "Or else I'm gonna get in trouble!"

The girls clamber off my lap, but not before I give them a huge hug. I stand and do the same for Jackson, and he holds my face while pecking my lips delicately so not to mess up my stage lipstick.

"I can't wait to see it, honey," he says.

I smile at him, touching the tip of his nose with mine.

"Break your leg, mommy!" Stella says, being led out of the room with her hand in Jackson's.

Harper grips the other one, looking back over her shoulder, too. "Break the leg, mama!"

I giggle and wave them goodbye, then finish getting ready.

…

The performance goes wonderfully. It was executed perfectly, a great example of how seamlessly a cast can work together. After I quickly congratulate everyone on a successful opening night, I hurry to find my family, still in costume.

I hear their voices before I see them, so I break into a jog. Jackson catches my eye first as he looks up, then smiles and stretches out his arms so I can fly into them.

"Mommy!" the girls chorus, while Jackson spins me around.

When he sets me down, I'm breathless. I kneel and wrap the girls in a big hug, squeezing them tightly while they make funny choking noises.

"You were famous, mama!" Harper says, pulling back a bit to look into my face.

Stella gasps. "Remember! Our presents! Bootsy, our presents! We have to give them to her."

"Oh, yeah!"

All at once, gifts are presented to me. Jackson hands me a bouquet of beautiful flowers, and the girls each have a bag of M&Ms in hand.

"Flowers and candy," Jackson says, beaming. "Just like always."

My eyes well up as I press my hand to my heart. "Oh, you guys," I say, then give my husband another huge hug and a kiss. "Thank you."

"Daddy said he always used to bring you these presents when he saw your plays," Harper says.

"He did," I say, giving him a warm look. "He always did."

Since the first time Jackson came to my show and presented me with what he knows I love most, my life has changed drastically. During _White Christmas_ , I was new to Chicago and scared out of my mind. I wondered if I would make it in theater, or if I would flop and have to move back home to Ohio.

That night Jackson came to see my show was the night we slipped over the edge. Lying in each other's arms after everything that happened, we fell in love. I knew it for a fact then, and I know it now. I don't have to try and remember how that felt, wrapped up in him for the first time; it's still so clear. It was like bathing in honey.

Now, every night is like that. Now, love is around every corner whether it's from him or my daughters. I live in a nice house and have an established career. I control my professional decisions and make them for myself. And at home, mine and Jackson's partnership is the solid foundation we all stem from.

Now, instead of going home to a drafty studio apartment, I go home to screaming, laughing, loving kids and a devoted husband. When work gets to be too much, I take a break. Family always comes first, and I've gotten much better at separating the two. I haven't been overwhelmed to the point of panic for years. Having children has made me more stable than I ever knew possible.

But in all the ways my life has transformed, Jackson has stayed the same. Through it all, he's by my side. Sometimes I lead, and other times he does. We're partners in every sense of the word, each other's rocks and support systems. We try to be the best husband, the best wife, the best parents, that we can.

It's strange to think how far we've come. Our lives are mature and well-rounded. We have everything we worked for, and the outcome was worth every instance of pain.

And some nights, he'll look at me with a glint in his eye reminiscent of the one he always used to have. On nights where we came together like a song, flowed like a movie, had no worries to speak of. He'll look at me through those glasses I love, and in that moment, all those years come back. And I'll be reminded of when we were young.


End file.
